


The Gladstone Ritual

by Velma68



Series: Bibliophilia [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ACD Musgrave Ritual, Alternate Season/Series 03, Bibliophilia, Books, Case Fic, Dom/sub Undertones, English Civil War, F/M, Illustrated, Libraries & Librarians, M/M, Middle Ages, Monks & Monasteries, Murder, Mystery, Original Character Death(s), Post-Reichenbach, Postcolonial, Treasure Hunting, Welsh Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velma68/pseuds/Velma68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Much has been buried, much lost. But loyalty endures. Sherlock and John find their way to help an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Penarlâg

**Author's Note:**

> “The Gladstone Ritual” is part of the [Bibliophilia](http://archiveofourown.org/series/42833) series. Bernhard Bloodworth, owner of Arden Bookseller in Hay-on-Wye, is introduced in [Bronze Blaze](http://archiveofourown.org/works/741701/chapters/1381277), the first story in the series. This story begins in early June 2013, not quite two years after [Grief](http://archiveofourown.org/works/775369), the series’ second story. Sherlock returned to John and their life at 221B Baker Street only a fortnight before. It’s not all fine.
> 
> The story is set in Hawarden, Wales, called Penarlâg in Welsh. Here’s how to say [Hawarden](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e7/En-uk-Hawarden.ogg). Translations of Welsh words and phrases appear in the footnotes. 
> 
> Bibliophilia follows BBC canon through the second season. “The Gladstone Ritual” imagines an alternate Season 3.

_“Côf a lithr, llythyrau a geidw.”_ (“Memory slips, letters remain.”)

—Welsh proverb

 

Constable Gordon Frye was timing the walk from the missing librarian’s cottage to the front door of Gladstone’s Library. Sophia Brunton may have come this way on the night or morning she vanished. He clicked off his stopwatch, leaned against the library’s stone wall while he caught his breath, and looked across the well-tended lawn. Bloody hell. There was a prone figure, a man, splayed across the plinth of the library’s monument to Prime Minister Gladstone. He took off at a jog.

The young fellow—surely not yet thirty—was speaking in a low drone. “She’s gone. We’d always meet here, wouldn’t we, but she’s gone. _Mae hi wedi mynd._ ”

“Come on, up you go.” Constable Frye turned the man and helped him sit. “What’s the matter, then?”

The man’s eyes lifted, glazed and uncomprehending. The officer took in the curly dark hair, matted at the forehead with sweat; tawny brown eyes; strong hands with dirt beneath the nails; the footballer’s build. More gently, he wagered, “You’re a Hywel, if I’m not mistaken. One of Rhys’s boys, maybe? Are you ill, lad?”

Unchecked tears began to roll down Rhobert Hywel’s face. “She’s gone. _Mae hi wedi mynd._ ”

Constable Frye frowned, his mind turning to Sophia Brunton. “Who’s gone, now?”

“Sophia. _Nid oes unrhyw un wedi gweld hi._ ” His broad fingers left streaks of mud across his cheeks as he covered his eyes.

The constable spoke no Welsh, but he had heard enough. The warden wanted to keep things quiet, but evidently news of the librarian’s disappearance had already spread to the village. They’d have to straighten Hywel out, then question him. He looked up at the statue. “Do you work for the Gladstones, lad? Mr. Gladstone is inside with the library’s warden. Stay right here, and we’ll get you sorted, all right?”

Rhobert wearily watched the officer’s back as he hurried into the library. _“Deiniol Sant yn fy helpu.”_[1]

***

John Watson peered out the cab window at lush, rolling fields crossed by ancient stone walls. The bustle of Chester, only a few kilometers distant, fell away at the Welsh border. A bilingual road sign announced Penarlâg/Hawarden ahead. Sherlock Holmes sat forward eagerly, some of the old excitement gleaming in his pale eyes. With a plummy trill, he enunciated the English name of the village. “Hawarden, John. Sounds like Arden.”

John allowed himself a long look. His friend—once his lover—was too thin, his body hardened and wiry from the chase. The waves at his temples showed touches of silver. A gnarled scar was just visible above the collar on the nape of his neck. He had not shared the story of that scar. In the pandemonium filling the days since Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street, he had said little about the two years after he stepped off St. Bart’s roof. John knew one thing: He had acted to protect John—but not as a partner. As a liability. As a pawn in the game.

Bernhard Bloodworth stood by John after Sherlock’s death. John would not forget the regular emails, the well-chosen books and jars of clover honey that arrived in Arden Bookseller boxes. He paid an overdue visit to Hay-on-Wye last year to help Bloodworth during the Hay Festival. Now the bookman was in Hawarden for a month as a resident reader at Gladstone’s Library. When a special collections librarian went missing, it was John who got the call.

The road narrowed after the small village, and they rolled past the Gladstone estate’s imposing red-painted public gate. John had learned in a quick online search that Prime Minister William Ewart Gladstone inherited the property, with its eighteenth-century castle and ruins of a much older fortress, from the family of his wife, Catherine Glynne. Before his death, the old man gave his personal collection of 32,000 volumes and a substantial bequest to open a residential library adjoining the estate.

Down the curving length of the drive, a compact, dun man came into sight; he raised his arm. The cab pulled up in front of the sprawling late-Victorian library. Reddish sandstone caught the noontime light and cast warmth across banks of mullioned windows. With a book in one hand and his wallet in the other, Bloodworth was already stepping around to pay the driver.

Sherlock leapt from the back, but Bloodworth’s first words were for John. “Watson, my boy! You are a marvel to meet me in the hinterland so quickly. Thank you. Step in with the bags, won’t you, and speak with the young seminarian just inside. We’ll be right after you.” He patted John’s shoulder fondly as he moved past. The cab pulled away, leaving Sherlock with his old friend.

Sherlock tried a greeting: “Bloodworth.”

Finally Bloodworth’s penetrating eyes settled on Sherlock. His head-to-toe reckoning missed nothing. Sherlock found himself shaken by Bloodworth’s grave expression.

“Holmes.” The silence stretched. “Watson was kind enough to tell me of your resurrection before I heard it in the news. I am glad to see you again.”

A bird began to sing in the garden. Bloodworth held Sherlock’s gaze narrowly. A second bird echoed the tune.

“I see now. Your reason wholly failed you. I believe you’ve no idea what your charade did to Watson—to all of us who thought you dead and lost.” A shadow crossed his face. “It may be that you are lost nonetheless. You never did notice when the knife is above your own neck.”

His glance flicked to the vestibule where John stood talking with a rangy man in a clerical collar. He sighed. “We’ll speak no more of it. Thank you for coming. This library is a haven for readers.” His thumb ran along the spine of the book he held. “I hate to see any trouble darken it.”

A muscle twitched beneath Sherlock’s right eye as he released a long breath. Very softly, he said, “I’m glad to see you, too, Bloodworth.” He followed him to the library’s arched door.

John turned to meet them, holding an old-fashioned brass key. “We’re to share room fourteen, with Henry’s apologies,” he said. “The bedrooms are completely filled this weekend. He’s taken the bags upstairs.”

“Henry is working as the warden’s personal assistant this summer in exchange for a semester in residence next fall while he writes his thesis,” Bloodworth explained. “The warden is the library’s chief administrator—by tradition, always an Anglican priest. We’ll meet him shortly for lunch.” Bloodworth turned to the left and led them into the reading room.

John took a few preoccupied steps forward, his eyes on the woodblock floor as he worried the heavy key in his pocket. Then he looked up. A tiny, wondering sound escaped his throat and echoed through the soaring space. Carved wooden columns rose two levels through the golden air to a rib-vaulted ceiling of interlocking gothic arches. Sunlight scattered through tall leaded windows, falling everywhere on a kaleidoscope of books. With delight crowding out thought, John turned to Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes were already on him, ineffably sad. As one, they recoiled and looked away.

Bloodworth shepherded them across the ground level, indicating the library’s catalogue and main collection in tightly spaced stacks. He pointed out a restricted area near the front of the library: “Incunabula, rare manuscripts, and a family archive that was part of the library’s founding collection are kept under lock and key in that room.”

Quickly losing patience with the impromptu tour, Sherlock ducked through a side door. When Bloodworth and John followed, they found him halfway down a gallery with dozens of tall bookshelves slotted flush against one another. He slipped his long fingers between two of the shelves. In perfect equipoise, the wooden shelves weighted with books effortlessly parted on invisible bearings. Delighted with the ingenious mechanism, Sherlock strode the full length of the gallery opening each pair of shelves with a single fingertip. He was on his belly poking at the tiny casters when Bloodworth spoke, a trace of indulgence in his voice. “Gladstone personally designed these rolling stacks.”

“Clever,” Sherlock allowed. John checked a smile he felt rising despite himself. Everything about Sherlock was familiar, but nothing was the same.

They finally climbed a narrow spiral staircase to the balcony level, where resident readers work at reserved desks. Bloodworth’s was piled high with Georgian and Victorian volumes of botany and ornithology and a number of exotic travelogues. Bloodworth added the leather-bound book he had been carrying to the unsteady stack. John noticed the title: _Plant-life: Popular Papers on the Phenomena of Botany,_ by William Ewart Gladstone. “I’m surprised to see natural history books,” he said. “I read that humanities and religion are the library’s strengths.”

“Gladstone was a devout Anglican, but also a man of science,” Bloodworth replied, leveling a gaze at Sherlock, a steady challenge. “He believed that where there is truth, there is God.”

“Politicians,” Sherlock scoffed. “Hardly models of sincerity in any age.” He gave the hem of his jacket a firm tug, then turned to examine the neighboring bookshelf.

“Ah!” Bloodworth said. “Already 12:30. Come—Tilbury will be waiting in the coffee shop.”

***

Gladstone Library’s warden, Stephen Tilbury, was an earnest man of about sixty with a full head of white hair, a pale blue shirt with clerical collar, and watery eyes to match. He had been speaking for some minutes about the library’s board of directors, chaired by Reginald Gladstone. “—minimize publicity, in the interest of protecting—”

John’s attention strayed. Nudging a slice of tomato into place, he took another bite of his roast beef sandwich. They were nearly alone in the coffee shop; most of the library’s residents were out enjoying the local sights on a cloudless Saturday. But across the room, he spotted Henry eating at a small table with a laughing man. As the man tossed his shaggy auburn hair from his forehead, his sparkling eyes caught John’s. He smiled.

“—remembered your success locating Bloodworth’s extraordinary book and heard news of your recent return and vindication, so we asked—” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Tilbury. We understand perfectly.” His eyes cut to the lively table across the room. “Will you tell us now about the missing librarian?”

But it seemed Stephen Tilbury was not quite ready to tell his story. He rose to fetch a pot of tea and cups. Bloodworth nodded to the pair at the other table, then turned back to John and Sherlock. “I’m afraid it will be dinner or breakfast before you meet most of the other residents, but that’s Niall Madigan there with Henry. He’s a medievalist at Trinity College Dublin—here to research links between Irish and Welsh monastic scriptoriums. Quite fascinating.” Sherlock pushed back his chair, angling closer to John.

With a cup of tea in hand, the warden finally got down to brass tacks. “Sophia Brunton is our librarian in charge of special collections—in the position for nearly ten years. Her seniority entitles her to one of the few staff cottages on library grounds. Yesterday morning, she did not report to work.”

“Is that unusual for her?” John asked.

“Oh, very much so. Except for a few short vacations, she hasn’t missed a day of work in at least a year. And if she were ill, she would call my assistant. But we heard nothing from her.”

“Interesting.” Sherlock considered for a moment. “How did you react?”

Tilbury sat up a bit straighter. “At 10:00, we sent one of the junior librarians to check on her. Her cottage was locked, and there was no sign of her. Our maintenance man unlocked the door after lunch and found no one inside.”

“We’ll have to inspect the cottage, of course.” Sherlock rested his fingertips together under his chin, then his eyes snapped to Tilbury. “You visited her rooms yourself in the afternoon. What did you see inside? Any sign of a struggle?”

“I did,” Tilbury admitted. “The place looked undisturbed. Sophia’s phone and handbag were on top of the chest of drawers in the bedroom. The bed was neatly made up, with an empty suitcase set out on it.”

John frowned. “What did you do at that point, Mr. Tilbury?”

“No one at the library has seen her since the end of the workday on Thursday.” Tilbury dropped his voice a notch. “When 5:00 Friday brought no word from her, we called the police. Assistant Chief Constable Gordon Frye of the North Wales Police launched a missing person investigation last evening.”

Sherlock was leaning forward intently now, thrumming with energy. “But there’s something more about Sophia Brunton, isn’t there, Mr. Tilbury? Something a bit out of the ordinary. Tell us.”

***

_Warden’s house. Wednesday morning._

The mantel clock ticked past 2:00. It was Tuesday—no, Wednesday now. Stephen Tilbury rubbed his bleary eyes and listened hopelessly to the propulsive beat, the house’s only sound. He could no longer track the lines in his book, but closing his eyes only ushered him into a febrile theater backlit with restless cogitation. His brain gyrated like a bucket of eels.

He rose with a sigh. He would take a walk with his relentless old companion, insomnia. The track pants he was wearing would do; he laced up his trainers and pulled on a dark jacket. His feet turned to the usual path, well lit by the moon. A paved walk ran from the warden’s Queen Anne–style house, across a garden and stretch of lawn, around the front of the library, past the cluster of staff cottages, and back through manicured woods. He could walk the entire circuit in twenty minutes. He set out.

The mild evening lulled him, folding him in comfortable darkness as he walked. But when he reached the rear corner of the reading room, his weary mind began to mislead him. He nearly believed he saw a low blush of light gleaming through the window above his head. He moved closer to the library’s stone wall and softly followed the will-o’-the-wisp.

At the front corner, Tilbury paused for a moment with his back tucked against a stone pillar. A tier of windows was set lower along this wall, at chest level. He eased his head from behind the pillar, his eyes trained on the bay window that formed a niche for the special collections room inside. A bare glimmer of light shone from the restricted room. But special collections closed at 5:00, and the reading room’s doors were locked to residents at 10:00. A burglar? Cursing himself for leaving the heavy torch at home, he lowered into a crouch and inched closer.

Directly beneath the bay window now, he edged up for a look. He saw a woman—sleek blonde hair pulled low on her neck—shining a small torch over two documents. Her face came into view as she lifted one of the papers. It was Sophia Brunton.

He dropped down for a moment and rested his forehead against the cool stone. Sophia was in line to succeed the head librarian at his retirement. She was highly intelligent, ambitious, and respected, if not exactly liked, with her sharp wit and native impatience. What could she be after? He slid up for another look. She seemed to be concluding her comparison of the manuscripts. His mouth fell open, a hand rising in protest—she was _folding_ the papers. She slipped them into her jacket and stood, switching off the torch.

Tilbury bent low and sprinted silently to the library’s main entrance just outside the reading room. The sight of the precious manuscripts creasing between her fingers had somehow shot his spine full of steel. He would put an end to this—right now. Sophia had worked her last day at the library. He flattened behind the arched door.

A moment later, the door cracked open, and Sophia Brunton slipped soundlessly into the night. She was glancing left and right when a heavy hand fell on her shoulder. She froze.

“Good evening, Sophia.” Tilbury emerged from the shadows behind her.

“Stephen! Hello!” She backed away a step, then put on a taut smile. “Are you having trouble sleeping, too? I was just walking—”

“Quiet. _I saw you._ I saw everything. Give me the manuscripts.”

The smile abruptly fell. “Manuscripts?”

“Give me the two documents you _folded_ and hid in your jacket. Now.”

She swallowed hard and reached into her jacket for the papers. Tilbury accepted them, carefully smoothing a finger along the crease. The top sheet was a diagram of some kind, sketched in pencil on the unlined yellow paper provided for taking notes in the special collections room. “That one is mine,” Sophia said, snatching it back and depositing it in her pocket.

Tilbury let her take the drawing, for below was revealed a parchment written in flowing secretary hand. He recognized it. It was one of the oldest items in the original family archive, a relic of the Welsh Glynne family of Gladstone’s wife. The manuscript evidently dated from the 1650s, the Civil War years when the Glynnes acquired the estate and lordship of Hawarden. A decade or more before, Reginald Gladstone had told him lightly about this list of questions and answers, a family catechism that each heir for centuries in the Glynne and then the Gladstone family had recited in a solemn ceremony when he came of age. Reg’s father called him home from university on his eighteenth birthday for the ritual.

Reg said it was like a coat of arms, of no practical use, simply family pride and nostalgia. But to Tilbury, the antiquity of the ritual and the fact that it was still observed marked a fundamental part of the character of the Gladstone family—and so this yellowed manuscript was a cornerstone of the library’s collection, irreplaceable.

He rounded on the librarian. “You have had unfettered access to the Gladstone archive for nine years, and this is how you repay that trust? By stealing from the collection? Did you intend to sell this manuscript? You've spoiled your chances. Look at the damage you've done to it!”

She stood with stony composure, not quite meeting his eyes. Tilbury was not finished. “You will leave your position tomorrow and vacate the cottage by the end of the week.”

Sophia’s shoulders sagged. She turned to go, but then paused for a long moment with her hands clenched. She faced him again, now with her lip trembling and tears forming in her eyes. “Stephen, I . . .” She bit her lip. “Please, sir, I can’t bear to think of my colleagues knowing. The gossip will kill me. Please. Let me submit a voluntary letter of resignation and leave in a month.” One tear began to roll down her face.

Tilbury felt himself weaken. He closed his eyes and blew out a long breath. “I won’t call the police—I’ve no wish to make this incident public—but I’ll have to inform the board of directors. This is a flagrant violation of our trust with the Gladstone family. You may have one week to resign and give whatever reason you like for going. You should expect no reference from this institution. I’ll confirm employment dates and nothing more.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and disappeared down the path around the library. There would be no sleep for Stephen Tilbury tonight. After a moment’s thought, he slipped the now sadly creased document into his jacket for safekeeping. With his mind already on an early meeting with Reg, he turned, utterly spent, toward home.

***

Tilbury was grim as he concluded his account. “A shameful dereliction,” Bloodworth muttered.

“When did she resign, Mr. Tilbury?” asked John.

“That’s the strange thing,” Tilbury mused. “She worked on Wednesday and Thursday just as if nothing had happened. We kept an eagle eye on her, of course. I spoke with Reginald Gladstone on Wednesday morning about the incident; Reg and I have been friends as well as colleagues for years. He quite agreed with me that it would be prudent to avoid a public accusation. So we waited for Sophia’s letter of resignation, or really any indication of her plans—but she said nothing. And then she was gone.”

“Did Mr. Gladstone try to speak with Ms. Brunton?” Sherlock asked.

“Not to my knowledge. He knows her only in passing from library events. And I suppose he’d seen her on his estate from time to time. Sophia and one of his staff were something of an item for a while, although more recently—”

He stopped as a blush rose on his throat. “Please pardon me. This is rather delicate. I understand she formed an . . . alliance with one of our readers in residence over the winter holiday. Which makes the business with young Hywel all the more unlikely.”

“Hywel?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the warden.

“Yes, quite. Rhobert Hywel is Reg’s chief groundsman, I believe. The family have served at the estate for generations. Constable Frye found Hywel on library grounds this morning. He was sitting at the base of the Gladstone monument, crying and babbling about Sophia. I suppose he must have heard about the search. Reg and I questioned him with the constable, but he wouldn’t say much, only ‘She’s gone! I met her here, and now she’s gone.’ The rest was in Welsh.”

Tilbury shook his head sadly. “He’d always seemed a steady sort. Well, Reg said he sent the man home sick from work on Friday morning—probably a touch of flu explains it. The constable finally took Hywel into custody just before noon. The force has a Welsh liaison officer who can question him further and get him medical care if he needs it, but I’m sure there’s no connection to the disappearance.”

“What utter bunk,” Sherlock declared. John stiffened, but the detective was already on his feet, aflame with the puzzle. “Brunton risked her career for that paper. Hywel loved her. There is a common thread.”

“I need to see the document. Now.”

  

* * *

[1] _Mae hi wedi mynd._ (She is gone.) _Nid oes unrhyw un wedi gweld hi._ (No one has seen her.) _Deiniol Sant yn fy helpu._ (Saint Deiniol help me.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Ghislainem70](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghislainem70) and [Maggie_Conagher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Maggie_Conagher) for listening at all hours and for discerning advice. The second Bibliophilia case is dedicated to you. [Snogandagrope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope), I am so grateful for the emergency mini-betas and faithful comments; I loved having you along for the ride. Special thanks to Skywatcher for technical and mathematical advice—as Irene says, brainy is the new sexy.


	2. Deiniol Gwyn

_Gladstone estate. Friday morning._

The disrespect weighed heavily on the man: the rough plastic bag meant for rubbish, the perfunctory handling. This stopping place was only temporary, but at least here he could give the thing a small measure of the dignity it deserved. Steady rain pounded on the tin roof of the low outbuilding. Sunrise was still an hour off. Shining a pocket torch on the latch, he opened the low door and ducked inside.

Bags of compost and mulch crowded the floor, with bonemeal, potash, and fish emulsion stacked on high shelves above a scarred potting bench. Setting his burden on the long bench, he gently folded back the black plastic, revealing a nest of delicate textiles.

His great-great-grandmother’s lace shawl lay on top. She knit the weightless cobweb of the finest undyed Welsh wool—a patterned circle nearly two meters across—for her first grandchild’s christening, and it had graced each of the family’s babies and brides for more than eighty years. His mother washed and reshaped it after his older brother’s wedding; she gave it to him to save for his bride. His rough fingertips catching on the airy lace, he carefully shook out the shawl and folded it into a half moon on the bench.

Beneath the shawl was an ancient linen sack—rumpled, dotted with brown mildew, and thinning at the seams. Women’s hands once made it lovely, like the shawl, but now the picot edging was dry and crumbling with age. He did not open the sack. He gently smoothed and folded the linen around the heavy object inside, then centered it on the shawl. His workman’s hands tucked the handknit lace—beautiful, warm, soft, and sheltering—all around. He rested his palm on it for a moment, asking forgiveness.

With a despairing breath, he returned the neatened bundle to the rubbish bag and set it far back on a shelf over the door. He was very tired now, so tired, but his body remembered what to do. He awkwardly bent a knee, genuflecting in front of the door with his head bowed, before he stepped out into the rain.

Reginald Gladstone picked up the pace a bit as he walked—now rather briskly—along the well-maintained gravel trail circling the family’s estate. It was 6:00, and rain or shine, it was time for Reg’s morning lap. Energetic hikes of three kilometers twice daily were his strategy for fighting the spread that had been creeping on since Bertie, the youngest Gladstone brother, opened a gastropub in the village. The food at the Glynne Arms was excellent, and Reg’s waistline was showing the damage.

By tradition that predated both Reg and his father, Gladstone gardeners, groundsmen, and gamekeepers started work at 6:30 in the summer to avoid the worst of the afternoon heat. Reg found that greeting the help slowed him down, so he set out early. Huffing a bit, he surveyed with satisfaction the silent and still-deserted expanse of clipped lawn and cultivated woods as he neared the ruin of Old Hawarden Castle, the estate’s storied thirteenth-century keep.

Rounding the final bend in the trail, Reg saw that he was mistaken: he was not alone this morning. Ancient earthen barricades surrounded the ruined castle, dropping off into a sixty-meter ravine that once foiled enemy invasions. A dark-haired man sat soaked and shivering on the grassy fortification near the great hall, clutching his knees to his broad chest. His eyes were closed. As Reg neared, he could hear the man murmuring in Welsh, his ragged breath almost drowning out the words.

It was Rhobert, one of the younger members of the large Hywel family, he now recognized. A sturdy, reliable man and a hard worker, he had earned a promotion to chief groundsman when one of his uncles retired last year. Rhobert was early to the estate this morning. Wet with the nighttime rain, he had obviously been here for some time. Reg stood for a moment to catch his breath and considered his obligations.

“Rhobert, ” he finally called. The young man lifted his face toward Reg’s voice, then turned away with a convulsive shudder. “Rhobert?” Reg leaned forward and patted him clumsily on the shoulder. “Come now, man, you aren’t well. For heaven’s sake, you should be in bed. Go home now. The work will still be here when you’re feeling stronger.”

Rhobert finally met Reg’s eyes, his expression unhinged and strange. “I’m strong enough, Mr. Gladstone,” he said.

“Of course, lad, of course,” Reg backtracked. “I know you’re strong as they come.” The groundsman stared up at him, unblinking. “Can I call someone for you?” Reg tried. “Your father? Someone in the family?”

“Don’t call my family.” Rhobert was heaving broken breaths. “You don’t know my family.”

“Don’t be absurd!” Reg protested. “I know them. Trusty men, every one. I remember your father as a boy; I knew his father, too. Why, once I stood right here and watched your da climbing way up there.” He pointed to the jumbled stones high on the keep. Reg was rambling. Rhobert watched him with wide, glassy eyes.

“I wanted to match him and started to climb, but your grandfather plucked me down. He had a touch of the Welsh temper, that one! He said if he let me fall, he’d lose his position, all Hawarden would disown him, and my lady mother would eat his eyeballs from a dainty platter with her tea.” Reg chuckled awkwardly.

“Welsh temper,” Rhobert whispered, swaying slightly where he sat.

Reg refocused on the task at hand. “Can you stand up?”

“I didn’t stand up,” said Rhobert. “I never stood up.” With that, he stumbled to his feet, turning his back on Reg and the decaying castle.

Reg watched as Rhobert moved unevenly down the hill toward the village. After a long moment, he resumed his morning constitutional, unsettled by a passing feeling that he might have made a botch of that discussion.

***

_Glynne estate. 1654._

These dark times keep faithful men upon a very knife’s blade. For four generations our family preserved the brothers’ trust, but now—now the English turmoil simmers and overboils. An abiding place locked with a memory of iron is Cymru’s brightest hope.

The land here is barren, save for the keep. Lord Protector Cromwell ordered it destroyed to spite the fleeing royalists. Fool, that he would punish Englishmen thus, by slighting a Welsh castle. This fortress saw Cymru’s last siege against England’s encroachment nearly four centuries past. Now it stands diminished, crumbling. But the earthworks and defenses, the great hall, the sacrarium—I perceive them all clearly.

This insignificant village of Gwynedd is an easy hour’s ride from our border, like a rabbit hiding in plain sight. Yet meekly it defies. Its parish is dedicated still to Saint Deiniol, held sacred in Welshmen’s hearts despite Henry’s rift. It is enough. It will serve.

***

_Gladstone’s Library. Saturday afternoon._

The warden ushered Sherlock, John, and Bloodworth to the reading room’s restricted area. After his confrontation with Sophia Brunton, Tilbury had returned the precious Glynne family manuscript to the archive, adding new security measures. He spoke a few words with a librarian posted outside, and the special collections room was immediately closed until further notice. One cross-looking reader emerged, still scribbling on a handful of yellow notepaper, and they stepped in. With the room cleared, they could speak freely.

“I must admit, Mr. Holmes . . . well, I’m still not convinced that this document—as central as it is to our collection—will help you find Sophia.” Tilbury looked a bit startled by his own contrary remark. Sherlock snorted, his eyes already flicking rapidly around the small room, but Tilbury plowed on. “I’m more than willing to show you the manuscript, of course, but is it practical? I’d think your first priorities would be touring our grounds and speaking with the police.”

John braced for the inevitable explosion. It did not come. Sherlock merely closed his eyes while he drew and released two deep breaths. When he spoke, it was in a level tone. “I believe we’ll view the paper now, Mr. Tilbury. Where is it kept?”

John’s surprise was evidently written across his face. Sherlock bent a tiny smile in his direction as he turned to the tractable warden. Bloodworth watched the exchange with considerable interest, before he too directed his attention to the flat files where Tilbury was retrieving the manuscript. “A reader who wishes to view an item in the archive normally must submit a written pull slip,” Tilbury explained, gesturing at a stack of blue slips. “During your stay, however, you’re free to consult any items you need, with Bloodworth’s help. I know he is familiar with our holdings and best archival practices.”

Sherlock’s singular equanimity seemed to be holding, but Bloodworth jumped in just the same. “Thanks very much, Tilbury. I believe we’ll be fine from here.” The warden laid an acid-free folder on a large leather desk nearby. “Very well, Bloodworth,” he replied. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, please don’t hesitate to call if I can help in any way with the investigation. Constable Frye has been briefed about your involvement and is prepared to cooperate with you, as well.” Tilbury left them to it.

Bloodworth moved the chair so that they could gather around the desk. Pulling on cotton gloves, he carefully undid the folder’s string tie and lifted out the yellowed and creased vellum. They all leaned forward eagerly to read the graceful script.

 

“Whom does it honor?”

_“Deiniol Gwyn.”_

“Who shall have it?”

_“Cymry, Cristnogion.”_

“What was the month?”

_“The fifth from the first.”_

“Where was the sun?”

_“Over the keep.”_

“Where was the shadow?”

_“Under the oak.”_

“How was it stepped?”

_“North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under.”_

“What shall we give for it?”

_“All that is ours.”_

“Why should we give it?”

_“For the sake of the trust.”_

 

“What the hell?” John muttered. “Indeed,” Bloodworth sighed, scanning the lines again. “What do you think, Holmes?” he asked.

“I think the warden is wrong. This is decidedly practical,” he declared, straightening. His eyes focused far off, like a sailor anticipating land. “I think Sophia Brunton is more intelligent and curious than a dozen generations of Gladstones and Glynnes.”

John felt a snare tightening around his heart. The appeal of the puzzle, the appeal of being with Sherlock as they solved it: could he even separate the two pleasures? He chanced another look at the detective. Christ, it was a mistake. Sherlock was the fulcrum of the small room, his angular face catching the leaded windows’ refracted sun. He was a spark falling in dry leaves, a boulder just loosed at the top of a slope. He was inevitable. The brilliant, beautiful bastard. John’s mind stuttered: Brilliant. Beguiling. Betraying. Broken. _Bloody, buggering No._ He wouldn’t do this, _would not,_ not again, not even with Sherlock unbearably beautiful, weathered and older and home, and—

“John?” Sherlock spoke almost shyly as his discerning eyes swept John’s face.

Some time had passed; John noticed a collection of old photographs and sketches of the Gladstone estate spread across the desk alongside the manuscript. “Look here, Holmes,” Bloodworth said. “This is a Victorian engraving of the keep—a fortified tower—on the estate. The land used to be more heavily forested in the old days.” John blinked hard and straightened into parade rest. After a lingering pause, Sherlock turned back to Bloodworth. “Can we have duplicates made to take away?” he asked.

“The illustrations won’t pose a problem, but the manuscript is a stickier wicket.” Bloodworth shook his head ruefully. “The head librarian is unlikely to allow a photocopy given the new damage to the vellum. Possibly a scan would be all right; I’ll ask him. Or if you just need the text, we could quickly key a transcription.”

John steeled himself, determined to focus, to play his familiar part, to contribute. He thought about the missing librarian skulking in the dark. “Sherlock, do you think Sophia Brunton meant to sell the manuscript?”

Sherlock’s eyes startled John with their clarity. They were green in the warm light. “No,” he answered.

Bloodworth interjected. “She folded the parchment!” He looked suddenly angry as he stroked a gloved finger down the crease. “She can’t have been planning a sale. Her own actions compromised the document’s condition and value.”

“Quite right, Bloodworth,” Sherlock nodded at the bookman. “And she might have easily devised some excuse to scan the paper, if the content had been her only interest. No, I think she wanted to remove the manuscript for another reason: to prevent others from following in her footsteps.”

The desk held a tall stack of yellow paper—for security reasons, the only notepaper allowed in the restricted room. John’s eyes widened. “She had a sheet of this paper that night. Tilbury let her keep it. He said it was a diagram or a drawing.”

“Precisely. It was a map.” Sherlock looked at John like an undiscovered shore. “So you see, even with the chance to study the manuscript that she meant to deny us, we’re still half a league behind Sophia Brunton.”

Room fourteen boasted a view of the library’s sweeping front lawn, punctuated by the bronze patina of the Gladstone monument. The family’s estate was barely discernible beyond, verdant and serene. Even after the recent renovation of the library’s upstairs, the residential quarters were spartan. This was a chamber for serious readers, with a small desk and two neat, narrow beds fitted out with good reading lights. Lining the white-painted walls were bookshelves, mostly empty, ready to be filled with volumes from the library below. A few books were provided in every room: a King James Bible, the _Book of Common Prayer,_ a Welsh phrasebook, and a facsimile edition of the 1890 _Hawarden Visitors’ Hand-Book,_ by William Henry Gladstone, the prime minister’s son.

Sherlock had absorbed these minutiae within seconds of his arrival. Now he stood resting his forehead against one of the paned windows. Bloodworth was right: his reason had failed him. He needed to think. But it was difficult with John finally so close. John would not forgive him for his lies—let alone for Sherlock’s soul-deadening brutality as he had methodically snuffed out Moriarty’s sputtering fuses, one after the other. Sherlock had buried the ugly memories deep under the graded surface of his mind palace’s courtyard. Since his return, he had been exceedingly careful around John. John could never forgive him, but if Sherlock could only _think_ how to play his miserable, limited hand, it was possible that John might stay. He needed John . . . for the Work, of course. Any fool could see that the Work required John Watson.

But when they had viewed the Glynne manuscript, John had unraveled—just as the puzzle had begun to take shape. Why? _Think._ Although John quickly recovered, Sherlock had contrived to remove the dangerous stimulus. Leaving Bloodworth with the task of duplicating the documents, he hastened John outside to walk through Sophia Brunton’s cottage. Useless. The police had already removed the major pieces of evidence, and in any case, the brief visit had merely confirmed Tilbury’s description of the scene. Even the bedroom’s sordid testimony to the librarian’s peccadilloes—obvious in the wear pattern of her mattress—was in line with the warden’s account. No crime had occurred at the cottage: Brunton left under her own steam, for her own purposes.

Sherlock heard John’s light footsteps slowing in the hallway outside the door. His unruly feelings brought him to this ruin of his old life. Now he must be rational and circumspect. With his face still averted and pressed against the cool window, he tuned every sense to John as the knob began to turn. Taking cautious steps, John moved to stand directly behind him, his weight shifting from foot to foot. “I returned the cottage key to Tilbury. Bloodworth had these scans ready for you.” He reached forward and tried to hand a manila folder to Sherlock.

“For us, John. This is your case, really. Bloodworth called you in.” John was breathing more rapidly, but he was silent for a long time. His reflection was obscured in the window glass.

“I don’t take cases, Sherlock. Do you really think Bloodworth would have called me here . . . before?” John stepped closer; there was no space for maneuvering. “I’ll say it— _if you were dead._ ” His voice was rising. “But we don’t talk about that, do we? What the fuck, Sherlock. Why don’t we talk about that?” He threw the folder to the floor with an echoing slap.

This was not going as Sherlock had anticipated. He tried to turn, but John’s hands were flat on the window around Sherlock’s torso, and John was leaning forward, almost panting between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Sherlock froze, his eyes falling closed. “I had to protect you,” he whispered. “I couldn’t lose you.”

“No,” John growled, and he slammed into Sherlock’s narrow back and arse, thrusting him against the waist-high windowsill. John’s biceps flexed and his hands clenched into fists. “That is bollocks, and I won’t hear it from you again. You don’t protect me. I protect you. And I lost you. I failed to protect you, and you died. Do you have any idea what that meant?”

John suddenly released him, stepping back with his hands raised in surrender. “I have no fucking idea what it means now, because it was all a lie.”

Sherlock lurched heavily against the window. Behind stinging eyelids, he regarded the raked, stony soil of the mind palace’s burial grounds. “What can I do?”  

The room was resoundingly quiet, but the hallway carried distant sounds of readers at their work. Sherlock felt John’s finger lightly trace the scar above his collar. “Tell me one thing. Make it true.”

Sherlock opened two buttons and tugged out his shirttail, allowing his collar to drop back and reveal the knotted scar. He addressed the Gladstone monument below. “November 9, 2011. I was pursuing a lead in Uzbekistan.”

Twenty-one minutes later, Sherlock turned, his shirt still loose and untidy, uncertainty across his features. Dark and serious, John inspected him; he finally gave a crisp military nod. He retrieved the manila folder, and rising from a crouch, glanced out the window over Sherlock’s shoulder. “We’ll need to see the Gladstone estate,” he said.

Sherlock released the breath lodged in his throat. “Yes. But first, we should find out what Rhobert Hywel knows.”

***

_Sophia Brunton’s cottage. January._

The Cambridge don dropped back with a groan and let his legs fall wider as Sophia traced a sloppy infinity symbol in the crease of his thigh, brushing over the soft skin of his sack on each upward stroke. She crawled a bit closer as she gently pushed his other knee higher. She liked the clean taste of Cecil Wrottesley’s cock. She liked some of the things he knew. It was a convenient union, really.

She lowered her face and sighed warm breaths up the inside of his thigh, kissing wetly along the tendon, tonguing at it. Still drawing endless infinities with her fingernail, she nuzzled Cecil’s cock, then cupped her tongue under his balls and explored the seam there. His hand swept into her blonde hair; he pushed the sinuous curtain aside and tucked it behind her ears. He wanted to watch. Her eyes holding his, she licked a wide, deliberate stripe from the soft skin behind his balls very slowly all the way up to the flared head.

He had to look away. “Come on, kiss me,” he urged brokenly as he tugged at her shoulder. “Come here, baby. Let me touch you. Please.” He struggled to sit, but she pushed him down firmly, keeping one hand in the center of his chest. “No,” Sophia demurred in a low voice. “No, I believe I’ll stay right here.” She slung one leg over his thigh, keeping him spread open, and nibbled at the sensitive fold marked with a reddened infinity sign. “Look at me,” she commanded.

Then she dragged, hot and slick against his thigh, a purring moan breaking in her throat as she rocked and arched over him. “God, Sophia,” he whispered, and grabbed her by the hip, grinding her down harder. With the hand on his chest thumbing his nipple, she dropped her head and swirled her tongue luxuriously, let his weeping cock part her lips, and swallowed him down.

Five minutes after, curled beside him, she asked Cecil a question. “I heard you chatting with Stephen Tilbury at the cocktail hour this afternoon, love. What were you saying about the Glynne family?”

The professor chuckled. “All work and no play, Sophia?” She nuzzled at his neck. “I was telling the good warden about a manuscript fragment I saw at the National Library of Wales. It dates from the 1530s, not long before Henry VIII’s order to dissolve the monasteries.”

“That’s interesting,” she prompted. “Who wrote it?”

“Most likely the scholars at Clynnog Abbey. It was a kind of university by the sixteenth century, you know.” He sounded slow and drowsy. “The manuscript is just a scrap, really, but it mentioned something about the Glynnes’ sacred trust.”

Her features shone with artless curiosity. “I’m sure it couldn’t be the same family—could it?”

“As I was telling Stephen, the Hawarden Glynnes descended from an ancient Welsh noble family of Caernarfonshire. The abbey was in Caernarfonshire, so there might be a connection.” He smiled indulgently at her.

“What could they have meant by a trust?” she wondered with wide eyes.

“You would have made a formidable historian, Sophia.” He kissed her on the nose and yawned. She squirmed a bit to keep his attention. He opened his eyes and said, already drifting, “Well, there were rumors. Impossible to pin down anything. After the dissolution of the monasteries, Catholics went deep underground and took their secrets with them.”

“Of course,” she said neutrally, her mind already darting away from Cecil Wrottesley. She could find out everything he knew later, but right now she had to think. She rolled to the far side of the bed. Lifting up, she gently smoothed and folded the linen pillowcase. Resting her palm on it for a moment, she settled in and began to plan.


	3. Anwylyd

_Gladstone’s Library. April._

Now she was getting somewhere.

Aberystwyth, home of the National Library of Wales, had been Sophia Brunton’s destination for a long weekend in March. This rainy Saturday found her in a remote corner of the reading room, working through an anthology of Welsh poetry in English translation. After two hours of epic battles, eternal beloveds, and holy fathers and mothers, she had reached the late twelfth century, circa 1195:

 

_. . . The last man of Bangor Fawr saw after the onslaught_

_Intestines on the thorns left for the wolves to bury._

_O stalwart fellow to the brothers of Saint Bueno!_

_Hooded he fled through Gwynedd by the sea,_

_Bearing Bangor’s treasure mantled in unsullied white._

_All Gwynedd guards it still._

 

The celebrated Middle Welsh bard Cynddelw Brydydd Mawr was court poet to two successive princes of Gwynedd, she read. The librarian mused for a moment, then flipped back to the first line of the cryptic poem.

***

_North Wales Police station. Saturday afternoon._

Carrying a paper cup of strong tea, Gareth Lloyd headed for the holding cells. The North Wales Police station was in Buckley, three kilometers up from Hawarden, but the Welsh liaison officer—a constable for fifteen years—was a Hawarden native, born and bred. Constable Lloyd liked his job. He didn’t much like this afternoon’s task.

The last time he saw Rhobert Hywel might have been a decade past, when Rhobert led the Hawarden High School footballers to a rousing victory over Chester. He was a bloody fine midfielder, Rhobert was. Took after his uncle Ceith. Ceith was an old schoolmate of his, a good bloke like all the Hywels. Rhobert had a spotless record—yet here he was. But he supposed Constable Frye was hungry for any lead, however unlikely. The search for the missing librarian was the most excitement the small force had seen in some time.

Rhobert lay curled on his narrow bunk, face to the wall. Constable Lloyd addressed him in Welsh as he unlocked the cell. “Mr. Hywel? I’m Constable Gareth Lloyd, the force’s Welsh liaison. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”

The younger man relaxed a bit at the fluid words. He rolled over and slowly sat, rubbing at his neck and gathering himself. “Aye, Gareth. You look familiar. Call me Rhobert.” He accepted the cup of tea with a nod and took a sip.

The day had not been kind to Rhobert. Constable Lloyd noticed his smudged jeans and rumpled work shirt. The small washbasin in the corner showed signs of use, but a few dirty rivulets still lingered at Rhobert’s hairline and unshaven jaw. The officer pulled up the cell’s only chair and sat facing him. “Constable Frye told me what happened at the library this morning. He said you were upset and mentioned Sophia.” No sense in beating around the bush, he figured, so he asked quietly, “Do you know Sophia Brunton?”

Rhobert scrubbed a sturdy hand over his face, then resolutely met the other man’s eyes. “Aye, I know her. I know her for everything she is. I loved her, but she left me in March for an English toff she took up with over the winter.”

Rhobert blinked hard once, and Constable Lloyd felt a sudden swell of pity and understanding. “Were you serious about her, then?” he asked gently.

“I thought I’d marry her,” Rhobert admitted, “but that wasn’t the way of it.” His voice hitched, and he looked away as his eyes filled again.

The officer thought of Ceith Hywel, married to his first sweetheart for all these years, and sighed. “She lost a good chance, lad. Tomorrow will look brighter.” Rhobert nodded despairingly. There were only a few more questions Constable Lloyd needed answered. “Rhobert, when did you last see Sophia?”

Rhobert looked past the officer’s shoulder toward the front desk, where a baritone voice was projecting emphatic English rhythms down the hall. Returning his attention to the constable, he replied, “I work for the Gladstones. She found me on the estate on Wednesday afternoon. She came to talk.”

Constable Lloyd leaned forward, watching Rhobert closely. “And did you talk?”

“Aye. She said she wanted to get back together, asked me to forgive her.” Rhobert’s jaw was set, his gaze falling on the floor between their feet. He had the air of a man keeping his emotions firmly in check.

“I see,” he prompted. “What did you tell her?”

A small, pained noise escaped the groundsman. “I told her I wouldn’t. Saints know I wanted to, but she’d only lie to me again, sooner or later.”

The past few days had brought the lad a blow at every turn, and now the constable saw Rhobert’s determined composure crumbling. It was time to wrap up this interview. “What have you heard about Sophia since then? What brought you to the library this morning?”

Rhobert’s voice fell flat. “No one has seen her. I was thinking of her; we used to meet there at the statue.” He rubbed at his eyes like a small child. “When can I leave?”

Constable Lloyd reached forward and cupped the exhausted man’s shoulder as he stood. “You may be here overnight, I’m afraid, although I can see precious little reason to hold you.” He moved the chair back to its corner and returned to stand in front of Rhobert. “I’ll report our conversation to Constable Frye. If he thinks it’s necessary, will you allow us to search your flat?”

Rhobert rose to his feet a bit unsteadily and tossed his empty cup toward the bin. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “If my flatmate doesn’t mind. I’m so tired, Gareth.”

“Then try to sleep,” he suggested kindly. Just as he had feared, Rhobert Hywel’s situation was a pretty kettle of fish. The least he could do was make sure the man got some peace and quiet, a bit of time to pull himself together. He spoke with more assurance than he felt. “Don’t worry, we’ll get things straightened out soon. I’ll be on call tonight and back in the station tomorrow morning. You can ask for me at any time if you prefer to speak Welsh.”

Rhobert followed the constable to the barred door and stood looking after him as he made his way out. At the end of the hall, a tall man in a smart black suit leaned around the irate custody sergeant at the front desk. While the pleasant-faced bloke beside him continued speaking urgently with the sergeant, the stranger’s eerie light eyes pierced Rhobert for a suspended instant. The groundsman finally broke away and turned to his cot. He slept like a stone slab toppling to rest, _fy anwylyd_ reverberating through his dreams.[1]

***

“Really, John. That blithering Welsh ignoramus! Turning us away at the door because Hywel was worn out by a friendly tea party of an interrogation? What sort of cretinous excuse—”

A drenched cat had nothing on Sherlock. The detective’s hissing invective trailed off as he stalked huffily back into Gladstone’s Library. “Sherlock,” John sighed, dropping in step behind him. “The man fell asleep as we stood there. It’s all right. We’ll go back tomorrow. They have a full 24 hours before he has to be charged or released. It will give us time to catch up with Constable Frye.”

“Fine, fine.” Sherlock waved away the reasonable words like a swarm of gnats. He wheeled off to the left, almost bowling over John, who was already turning toward the stairs to the residential quarters. “The reading room, John,” Sherlock announced with evident forbearance. “It’s time to test Bloodworth’s Welsh.”

They found the bookman at his desk upstairs. Late afternoon sun filtered through the high windows, casting a glow across Bloodworth as he bent over a thick volume of botanical sketches. When John stepped closer, he saw the title: _Deciduous Trees of Wales._ At his elbow was a duplicate of the manila folder he’d prepared for Sherlock and John. “Researching _Quercus petraea,_ Bloodworth?” Sherlock wagered.

Bloodworth quoted the Glynne family ritual from memory: “Where was the shadow?” / _“Under the oak.”_ With a crooked smile, he indicated the leather-bound tome. “I decided to lead with my strength.”

John pulled up chairs flanking Bloodworth. The balcony was nearly empty at this hour, but Bloodworth spoke in a low voice. “ _Quercus petraea_ —the Welsh oak—is the national tree of Wales.” He showed them a two-page engraving of the stately tree, its broad canopy shading a massive, gnarled trunk. “There was a magnificent specimen in Chirk, just half an hour from here. The Pontfadog Oak was the oldest tree in Wales and one of the oldest in Europe until it fell in a storm a few months ago. It was at least 1,200 years old. Many Welsh oaks survive several hundred years.”

John did a quick calculation. “If the verse describes a place on the Glynnes’ land, the oak may still be standing on the Gladstone estate!”

“My thought precisely, Watson,” Bloodworth confirmed. Sherlock reached across the desk to close the large book and set it aside, pulling out a scan of the Glynne manuscript. Rhobert Hywel’s inconvenient nap forgotten, the detective thrummed with purpose. “Shall we begin at the beginning, gentlemen?”

 

“Whom does it honor?”

_“Deiniol Gwyn.”_

“Who shall have it?”

_“Cymry, Cristnogion.”_

Sherlock dug into his jacket pocket and, giving him a meaningful look, handed Bloodworth the Welsh phrasebook from room fourteen. Bloodworth groaned despairingly. “Holmes, no—surely we can find someone more fluent. I’m perfectly hopeless. The sentence structure, the consonant mutations . . .”

“Nonsense, Bloodworth. You live near the Welsh border, and I remember you studied the language for at least two years around the time we met. In any case, it’s just a few words. Elementary. Now have at it.” Sherlock sat back and folded his long legs, clearly prepared to wait. John cocked his head and grinned at the bookman.

Bloodworth was a practical man; he knew when he was outnumbered. He reviewed the lines, then leaned back and stared squinting at the timbered ceiling, deep in thought. _“Cymru_ is Wales, of course,” Bloodworth mused, “so _Cymry_ means Welshmen, or the Welsh people.” He shook his head, uncertain. “The second line must be a name. Daniel White—or possibly White Daniel, a blond or fair-skinned man?” Bloodworth deliberated for a moment, then opened the small dictionary.

 

They were close to wrapping up their analysis of the manuscript when a sprightly octogenarian in a clerical collar called out to Bloodworth as he trundled by with a heavy armful of books. “Best pack it in, Bloodworth—it’s sherry hour. Mustn’t miss out!” He peered curiously at Sherlock and John as he passed.

Bloodworth smiled a bit wearily. Even here in north Wales, Sherlock Holmes’s triumphant return had been big news. “I believe you two are honor-bound to make an appearance tonight,” he sighed. “I’ve told a few of the more persistent residents that you’re visiting me to dodge the London limelight, but I’m afraid that half-truth may not hold for long.” He turned to take in John’s guarded reaction. “You are free to frame things however you like, of course. News is getting out about the mystery within our walls, despite Tilbury’s plans.”

His hand rising to rub at his collar and the scar it hid, Sherlock thought of Uzbekistan, so recently unearthed from the mind palace’s courtyard. “I believe we’re done here, Bloodworth. John and I should have a word. May we meet you in a few minutes?”

“Of course, Holmes.” Bloodworth shot John another look. “Sherry hour is in the lounge across from the dining room. I’ll be there presently.” Bloodworth stood and reached for his briefcase.

John followed Sherlock’s retreating back for a few steps, then hissed, “Sherlock, what is this?” He reached out a hand to slow the detective as he started down one of the narrow, twisting staircases.

John’s hand settled on his shoulder felt warm, familiar. Without a further thought, Sherlock reached his own hand up and laced fingers, then pulled their clasped hands free to lead John more quickly down the stairs. The reading room was closed to the public at this hour, and the resident readers had evidently chosen sherry over books, but still Sherlock dragged John forward into the quiet gallery that held Gladstone’s rolling bookshelves. When they reached the end of the gallery, still hand in hand, Sherlock parted a pair of the shelves, creating an impromptu private niche. He reeled John in, then spun to face him.

“Sherlock, what in bloody hell are you on about?” John panted.

Sherlock knew precisely what he had intended: a dispassionate agreement on a story to satisfy the library’s nosy readers. He and John could negotiate their account, since the unvarnished truth would not quite do. He remembered the cool windowpane of room fourteen on his face and the forceful coil of John’s body against his back. John needed the truth—Sherlock understood that more viscerally now. But the stacks were dim and isolated, and John was beautifully out of breath. Sherlock looked down at their hands, sweaty together across the palms, as he fell back against the shelves. “John,” he managed. “Tell me. I—I want you to decide. What you want. To say, that is.” His cheeks flamed.

John stared at him. He carefully extracted his hand from Sherlock’s grip, then took two deliberate steps back. “You’d like to know what I want now. Excellent,” he said, his voice laced with acid and his gaze firmly on the floor. When he finally raised them, those cherished cobalt eyes were a hard, muddy gray. “I’ll tell you what I _don’t_ want. I don’t want to have to listen to a room full of scholars applauding your miraculous return. I don’t want to hear what a ruddy hero you are. I don’t want to pretend to explain where you were for the past two years.”

“We’re working together now. Colleagues. The Work is what counts, right?” The detective nodded slowly. John clenched the hand Sherlock had claimed. “So we’ll tell anyone who asks that we’re taking cases again: that we’re here to consult on Sophia Brunton. That’s all I plan to say. Beyond that, you’re on your own.” With a steely look that flattened the detective, John spun on his heel and strode out. His steps echoed in a military cadence on the woodblock floor until he turned. Never blinking, Sherlock watched until his shadow receded and slipped out of sight.

By the time Sherlock arrived at sherry hour, the lounge was crowded with readers and library staff. The inviting room resembled a Victorian gentlemen’s club, with a tiled fireplace, deep leather chairs and sofas, oak bookshelves filled with novels and journals, and mullioned windows that looked out over the garden. A table inside the ornately carved entry carried trays of glasses and bottles of sherry, red wine, and chilled white wine. A hand-lettered sign on a wooden box suggested £1 per drink.

Sherlock spotted Bloodworth near a bookshelf, speaking animatedly with a tiny woman in chunky red spectacles. Bloodworth waved him over and handed him a sherry. The vivacious literature professor from Edinburgh was stopping over at the library on her way to climb Mount Snowdon. She and Bloodworth had discovered an 1889 first edition of Stevenson’s _The Master of Ballantrae_ among the lounge’s “take one, leave one” novels. “Near fine condition!” Bloodworth marveled, as the professor recounted the book’s critical reception in London. Sherlock wandered off with his sherry, leaving them to it.

Tilbury soon found him and described a Monday meeting planned with Reg Gladstone, until Sherlock cut him off with an efficient denunciation of the failed interview with Hywel. “Useless,” Sherlock snapped, as he scanned his eyes over the guests. “That older man in the tweed jacket is the head librarian.” He waved away Tilbury’s amazement. “His Association for Information Management tote bag. Obviously. I’d like to be introduced to any of the librarians who worked on Tuesday and Wednesday.”

As Tilbury pointed out another librarian, Sherlock caught sight of John across the room. He was crowded against one of the bay windows, sipping a glass of wine with Niall Madigan, the Irish medievalist. “Oh, Carl, look! It’s that detective you like—Sherlock Holmes!” A round woman with a brassy American accent shouldered her way in, and Tilbury abandoned Sherlock to his fan.

Carl and Annette, as it turned out, were visiting from Detroit. Sherlock craned over Carl’s head to keep tabs on Niall. The redheaded medievalist was shoulder to shoulder now with John, both looking out the large window to the Gladstone estate. Annette trilled, “We’re here on pilgrimage to Saint Winifred’s well. Carl planned the whole trip!” Niall was leaning close, speaking directly into John’s ear in the noisy room. John pointed outside, then both men chuckled. Sherlock saw John’s carefree smile when he turned.

Annette followed his stare. “And where is your boyfriend, the doctor? Is that Dr. Watson over there?” Her remark pierced the clamorous conversations around them. The detective turned on the Michiganders, his patience exhausted. “I and Dr. Watson are here by invitation to fulfill a professional obligation. Hmm. Winifred’s well, you say.” He narrowed his eyes at Carl. “Interesting mineral properties, unusual mud in Holywell. You planned the trip online. It took hours of computer time, so you had plenty of leisure to view your favorite porn without raising Annette’s suspicions.” She gasped and turned to confront Carl. “Particularly videos involving mud. Banal.” Sherlock paused. “And feces."

Sherlock escaped in the uproar. He poured a second glass of sherry and drained it, ignoring the payment box. Seconds later, the octogenarian priest cornered him, and the dinner gong rang. In the crowd swirling past, John called out, “Sherlock, Niall’s offered to give me a tour of the estate after dinner.” Sherlock ground his teeth as the chipper reverend discoursed on the best Anglican hymns for Pentecost. But Sherlock hardly heard the old man. He watched John and the Irishman comfortably chatting, leaving him behind in the eager dinnertime crush.

***

_Gladstone estate. Wednesday afternoon._

As early as she dared, Sophia Brunton slipped out the library’s arched front door, cursing the spot where, in the small hours that morning, spineless Stephen Tilbury somehow had the luck and nerve to interrupt her final nighttime visit to special collections. She had expected to have the luxury of time, but now Tilbury’s eyes—and, more alarmingly, Reg Gladstone’s—were on her. How fortunate that both men were comfortably stupid. Sophia hurried past the Gladstone monument and headed for the estate. They had forced her hand. She would carry out her scheme soon—very soon—but with no time to complete the arrangements, she would need help.

Rhobert was her man. He was strong, he knew the estate’s grounds better than Gladstone himself, and he still loved Sophia—she was sure of it.

Rhobert. She was half convinced he fancied her because she lived among books. It was a Welsh bromide: every man a poet. Rhobert had only a spotty secondary education, but he could reel off by heart enough verse to fill a small library. Pity it was all in Welsh, a language set in amber, suited to chieftains’ longhouses, arcing arrows, peat fires, and grazing sheep—as if English had stalled after _Beowulf._ Rhobert had offered to teach her, but frankly, she found it hard to care what the messy strings of consonants meant.

Still, a few words lodged in her memory. Most were endearments. When Rhobert spoke fondly, it was in Welsh. Once he held her in bed, spent, and with devastating tenderness arranged her against his muscular chest, his curls brushing her temple. In alternating stanzas of rolling Welsh and stilted literary English, his low voice told of the beloved’s body, smooth like the hull of a swift ship. His palm stroked her waist and flank, shaping her like a coil of rope. He spoke of the lover’s heart unfurling, snapping full in the breeze. As she unrepentantly curled into herself, he whispered _cariad,_ _fy anwylyd gwerthfawr._ [2] The words washed over her like a wave.

The path from the library led directly to the estate’s public gate. Sophia lifted the iron latch and stepped inside. After last night’s disastrous encounter, she might raise suspicion here. She needed to slip in unnoticed, find Rhobert, and speak the right words—calculated words that would bring him back, one last time. His workday ended early in the summer, but she hoped she could catch him in the outbuildings near Old Hawarden Castle, often his last stop before he walked down the hill to his flat in the village. She couldn’t risk visiting the flat; she wanted him alone.

A brisk five-minute walk along the perimeter trail took her through a small woods to the ruined castle. Luck was with her: on the slope ahead, Rhobert stood delicately pruning an ornamental cherry, his face a picture of concentration. Christ, he was handsome. His rolled shirtsleeves revealed strong forearms, girded power deliberately restrained. Cecil Wrottesley had served her well and may still prove useful, but for more reasons than one, she saw that she had sent Rhobert away too soon. It was not too late to remedy that miscalculation. She schooled her expression into something soft and hopeful as she stepped forward.

Tucking the small pruner into his chest pocket, Rhobert turned. He stiffened when he saw her, but only for an instant. “Sophia,” he said, carefully neutral.

In a low, breathy voice, she answered, “Rhobert.” Two soundless steps closer. “Rhobert, I—” She broke off, as if flustered, biting her bottom lip, and raised moist eyes to his. “Oh, Rhobert. Please. I’ve been such a fool.” She held out one hand to him, then dropped it limply to her side as the tears began to fall. “I’m so sorry—so terribly sorry. I don’t deserve . . . It’s been—” She looked at him helplessly, lips softly parting. “Please.”

She pulled in a deep breath and sighed it out as she watched Rhobert soften. He swayed, then unthinking feet carried him out of the cherry copse to stand in front of her. He did not look at her, but one calloused finger brushed down her palm and coaxed her fingers to rest like a songbird on a perch. His thumb stroked across her knuckles. “I need to know that you’re free,” he said. “That you’re finished with him.”

“I am,” she promised softly, clasping his hand.

Dusk fell around them before Sophia took the next step. Rhobert had led her by the hand to a massive cut stone from the old tower, fallen at the edge of the woodland and preserved as a rustic bench. Her head resting on his shoulder, she dared to say the words she had saved: “I’m so happy, love. And I know how we can be together—if only you’ll help me.”

With sudden clarity, Rhobert understood. There was a reason for Sophia’s visit, for this longed-for gift: a bargain to be struck. He tried, just the same. “We are together, _fy anwylyd._ Just like this. This is all we need.”

“I know, my love. Of course.” She nuzzled at his shoulder before continuing. “But you work so hard—and I’m tired of the library. Wouldn’t you like us to have a house, with land for a garden all your own? I’d like to have that with you,” she whispered, her voice layered with pleading and gentle promises.

Nestled against him, Sophia began to weave a tale of the English Civil War. This Welsh borderland was claimed by false Norman and English lords for generations, culminating in Wales' fateful struggle for independence launched at this very castle in 1282. "Dafydd ap Gruffudd, prince of Gwynedd, led the attack," Rhobert breathed, his eyes glowing. This story was Rhobert's birthright, and he was elated she knew it. Sophia's confidence grew.

She continued, sketching the terror and noise of battle in faraway England. The English lords of Hawarden, the Stanleys, were royalists and sheltered Charles I after his defeat by Cromwell’s army in 1645. They were brutally punished for their loyalty: Cromwell ordered their fortress destroyed, and they fled for their lives. In 1654, the Welsh Glynne family purchased the estate and lordship of Hawarden. “And a castle of Wales returned to the Welsh,” Rhobert concluded, raising his eyes to the crumbling keep.

Time to set the hook, Sophia thought. “Do you know what the Stanleys did with their riches, Rhobert? Coins, jewels, gold, silver—all the pomp and inheritance of a wealthy, aristocratic family?” He didn’t.

“Before they ran, they buried their treasure—right here on the estate. I know where it is. I’ve been researching for months, and now I have a map. We’ll be rich, and we’ll be together—if you’ll help me find it.” Sophia rose to her feet in front of him, her clarion call still echoing.

“But anything hidden here will belong to the Gladstones!” he protested.

“The Glynnes were Welsh—a Welsh-speaking noble family with roots in Caernarfonshire. They were the rightful inheritors. Is Reg Gladstone Welsh?” she demanded. Rhobert stood slowly, feeling something vital shifting within him. Sophia urged him on. “Rhobert, will you help me?”

After a grave pause, he replied, “Aye, _cariad,_ I’ll help you.”

Then Rhobert pulled Sophia into his arms. He wanted her—but now he saw too much. His beloved lied with exuberance and native skill, as naturally as Rhobert dribbled a football. His chest burned with anger and something more complicated as he buried his face in her fair hair.

* * *

[1] _fy anwylyd_ (my beloved)

[2] _cariad_ (sweetheart, love), _fy anwylyd_ _gwerthfawr_ (my precious beloved)


	4. Trust

John H. Watson. 8 June 2013. 6:47 p.m.

**Where are you going?**

 

John H. Watson. 8 June 2013. 7:16 p.m.

**Everything ok? Leaving for estate.**

 

John H. Watson. 8 June 2013. 8:09 p.m.

**Sherlock, are you all right? At old castle. John**

 

***

_Rhobert Hywel’s flat. Saturday evening._

The London detective was off his game—must be, thought Constable Frye. After all the cock-and-bull stories he had heard about Sherlock Holmes, he had been expecting a bit more dash.

Half his officers followed Dr. Watson’s blog, and that was before the recent media blitz. Even Constable Evelyn Gregor, a sensible cop and his counterpart on the Dyfed-Powys force in south Wales, had sung the praises of Holmes and Watson after the pair helped her close the _Bronze Blaze_ case. Gregor thought Holmes was brilliant. A right prat, she said, but an asset to any investigation, so long as he had his doctor to keep him in line.

Sherlock Holmes was all alone tonight.                                                                                              

Constable Frye had been halfway to Rhobert Hywel’s flat when Stephen Tilbury rang. The mild-mannered priest was cross as two sticks: Holmes and Watson wanted to interview Hywel, and Frye’s men had turned them away. While the North Wales Police didn’t answer to Mr. Tilbury, the region would sink without the Gladstones. So Constable Frye swallowed his pride, jotted down the number, and called Sherlock Holmes to apologize and invite him and Dr. Watson to search the flat.

As an officer questioned Hywel’s flatmate and cousin, Pedr Blevins, and two more scoured the two-bedroom flat, Constable Frye settled into a quiet corner to observe the famous Sherlock Holmes. The detective without his blogger was like a two-beat waltz. No clever performances, no cutting remarks—only his phone held his attention.

He was reading a message when he strode into the flat, his pale thumb stroking the glass absently; he nearly tripped when a second text rolled in. Holmes looked on as the police lifted cushions and shined torches into drawers and cupboards, but finally came to a stop by the flat’s small eastern window, still clutching the phone. Checking the back garden? No, the constable decided. He was looking up the gradual hill that climbed out of the village to the Gladstone estate.

Another text alert sounded. As he read, an unidentifiable emotion complicated his angular features—then Sherlock Holmes jolted into gear, stalking into Hywel’s bedroom.

“Do stop your tedious picking at pillows,” he barked at the young officer collecting evidence. Holmes lowered his face to inches above Hywel’s pillowcase. “You won’t find Sophia Brunton’s hair here. She hasn’t set foot in this flat for months. Rhobert Hywel slept in this bed, but not after Wednesday.” The detective slowly backed down the length of the bed. “Interesting. Something heavy lay here.” He indicated a rectangular indentation in the soft coverlet at the foot of the bed. “This is more recent. Thursday night or Friday morning.”

He turned, scanning the walls, finally fixing on the closet shelf, where a pile of neatly folded blankets was disturbed. “You peerless pinhead!” he huffed. “Don’t you see that something was removed, just here?” He stood on his toes to examine the blankets, then marched over to the flustered officer and snatched the man’s tweezers. Vibrating with impatience, he commanded, “Get me a fresh evidence bag.”

With minute focus, he plucked up six long fibers of ivory wool and sealed them in the bag. He swept out through the lounge, pausing for a moment to indicate the sofa. “That’s where Rhobert Hywel slept—for just a few hours—on Thursday and Friday. He could have slept in his bed, but he chose to be here.” Constable Frye accepted the evidence bag, but the detective waved away his thanks with a derisive snort. “Find out what’s missing from the closet—not a fuzzy jumper, I think, as charming as they are—and why Hywel wouldn’t sleep in his bed, and you might have a case.” And Holmes was gone, up the worn path to the estate.

With grudging admiration, Constable Frye pondered his flagging investigation, which the irascible detective may just have shaken to life. One thing was certain: Rhobert Hywel would spend the night in jail.

_Gladstone estate. Thursday afternoon._

“The oak quickly moving, / Before him, tremble heaven and earth. / A valiant door-keeper against an enemy,” recited Rhobert. “ _Cad Goddeu_ —‘The Battle of Trees,’” he explained as they walked. “I think it’s every Welsh child’s favorite poem. The sorcerer Gwydion enchants all the trees of the forest to fight as his army, and the towering Welsh oak terrorizes the invaders.”

Sophia was only half listening. She kept a tranquil smile on her face, but elation danced under her skin. She and Rhobert were back at Old Hawarden Castle. Yesterday’s romantic idyll had been a necessary step in her plan, but today she was determined not to squander the late afternoon sun. Rhobert knew where an ancient oak once stood on the Gladstone estate. It would fill the last hole in the map Sophia had devised.

Rhobert led her past the ruined castle’s earthworks. “We called it the Glynne Oak, although it was here long before the Glynnes. It was badly damaged in high winds one night when I was small; I still remember the storm. My father and grandfather took it down when old Mr. Gladstone decided it was past saving.” They hiked on to a sunken spot some distance from the keep. Rhobert turned to Sophia with a probing look. “Grandfather cried that morning. He told me the Glynne Oak finally lost the Battle of Trees.”

***

_Gladstone estate. Saturday evening._

John brain was swarming like one of Bloodworth’s Langstroth hives. Where the hell did Sherlock hare off to? Alone.  

By the time Sherlock came in from sherry hour, John’s table had been full. During the meal with Niall and a pair of Durham University dons, he kept one eye on his friend. His colleague. The distance suited him—until Sherlock took a phone call, solitary and intent, then pushed back his untouched plate as he rose. John studied his familiar profile passing, his dark curls as he walked out the door. The plonker was leaving.

Between bites of lasagna, Niall was describing the scriptorium at Iona, where patient monks created the Book of Kells. His own sharp words to Sherlock ran through John’s head in discordant counterpoint: “Work was a form of prayer.” “The Work is what counts.” “Self-renunciation through community.” “Beyond that, you’re on your own.” After ten minutes, John cracked. He texted Sherlock.

And again, a half hour later. And again, a bit furtively, as he strolled with Niall through the settling dusk toward Old Hawarden Castle. No answer, no answer.

“—entire compound protected by this exterior wall, with the living quarters set behind the keep.” Niall stood with one foot on a remnant of the bulwark, nearly level with the turf, his brown eyes glowing as he looked across the courtyard.

John brought himself back with a shake. He didn’t want to miss this. Medieval politics and religion left him cold, so Niall had been quick to offer a pragmatic tale of military maneuvers played out on the estate’s rolling landscape. John could hear the clamor of the tiny home force drilling inside the walls, feel the harsh bark of ancient trees catching on the chain mail and leather armor of Welsh guerrilla soldiers as they stole through the woodland below.

The mellow half-light made a vibrant helmet of the historian’s auburn hair. “Civilians—women and children, old men, and the noble family’s priest—would gather here when the attack came,” he continued, “to seek sanctuary in the castle’s chapel, or sacrarium.”

John looked up at the only standing wall behind the tower, cut by three arched windows. “Is this part of the bulwark?” he asked.

Niall shook his head. “No, this is the interior wall between the great hall and sacrarium, the castle’s two most important public spaces. The windows are magnificent.” He reached into the craggy opening just above them. “Give me a leg up?”

He scrambled up with a boost from John and stood casually in the tall aperture. “This center window at least was made of stained glass. Very costly and fashionable, so they put it where they could enjoy it both at dinner and prayer.” He smiled down at John. “You’re standing on the altar, right in the middle of the chapel.” He indicated the rough outline of the room. “Small niches with icons for prayer and confession over there,” he pointed. “Chairs or benches for seating on this side. During an invasion, sanctuary seekers could use them to barricade the doors.” John tensed his jaw.

“But fellow Catholics respected this holy space—better protection than any barricade.” Dropping into a muscular squat, Niall looked carefully down at John. “All right?”

“Yes,” John ground out. “It’s just—some things never change, I guess.” After a long pause, he raised his chin and smiled with genuine warmth. “Thanks for the tour, Niall. You’re an ace teacher.”

“My pleasure. Can I have a shoulder?” Niall leaned forward, and with his hands on John’s shoulders, jumped neatly to the ground.

***

Sherlock saw the old castle ahead as he climbed the trail through Hawarden Woods, the estate’s historic woodland, to meet John. The thicket was already dim with twilight. No trees older than 350 years, few oaks, and none proximate to the keep—interesting. The soil, a dark brown sandy loam extending to a depth of 50 centimeters, conducive to robust growth of _Quercus petraea._ Bloodworth’s engravings documenting the site’s past forestation patterns may prove invaluable.

 _Oh._ John’s text was an invitation, wasn’t it? Was it an invitation? Because John was . . . occupied.

Sherlock abandoned the trail and his plan to join John and the medievalist qua tour guide; he slipped through the woods until he stood in the shadows not 10 meters from the castle. The Irishman crouched high in a ruined window, his flank in well-fitted jeans a handbreadth from John’s eyes. He was gazing tenderly down at the doctor as they spoke, serious and quiet, and John looked at him admiringly—as if he were _amazing_ —and beamed. That smile, like twenty suns. Sherlock tasted a sour tang in the back of his throat. And then. Then the detestable man put his hands on John’s square shoulders, and lithely slid into his embrace.

***

“Ta, mate.” Niall stood close, quirking a smile to the ground as he dropped one hand. A thought dawned across John’s candid features. He licked his lips, shifting, but Niall jumped in. “John. Listen, I’d really like—”

The phone on Niall’s hip began to ring a lively jig. He huffed out a hard breath and stepped back, his face red. “God, I’m sorry.” He glanced down. “It’s Henry from the library. I’ll be quick.” Leaning against the chapel wall, he took the call. With a sigh, John looked out over Hawarden Woods, still picturing stealthy warriors hidden in the trees. Crickets and a phrase of birdsong echoed—startled into fleeting silence by a pair of tones sounding in unison. John’s text alert. A second, nearly as familiar, muted by the woods. John snatched his phone.

 

Bernhard Bloodworth. 8 June 2013. 8:32 p.m.

**JW, SH: Off to Glynne Arms. Meet there? BB**

 

“Good. Be there shortly. Bye.” Niall was just finishing his call. “Fancy a drink, John?” he asked. “Henry is heading to the Glynne Arms with a group from the library.” He chuckled when he caught sight of John’s phone. “Join me, will you?”

John stared out over the woodland, then down at Bloodworth’s text, deciding. He tapped out a slow reply as he answered, “Right. Yes. Let’s go.” But Niall was stiffening beside him. Idly smoothing his jacket, Sherlock stepped over the bulwark.

“Glynne Arms, then, gentlemen?”

***

 _Clynnog Abbey_ _._ _1534._

“Abbot Seiriol.”

“My dear son. It is well that you are come.” The abbot stepped forward to greet him with the kiss of peace and a heartfelt press of hands, but foreboding marred his refined features. It was written plain for one who knew him. The third son of a Caernarfonshire nobleman, the abbot had been a cousin and boyhood friend before he took the cowl and the name of Anglesey’s venerated saint.

“The news from the south is worse than we feared,” the abbot continued in a low tone. “We must do the thing of which we spoke. The Most Reverend Ieuan, Bishop of Bangor, is lately arrived and at prayer over the matter. He will join us in the abbey library presently.”

Abbot Seiriol led his kinsman through a clean-swept stone corridor and into the gardens. They talked of times past and admired Brother Asaph’s thriving patch of medicinal herbs. More quietly, with heads slotted together, the men spoke of the bastard princess Elizabeth, lately born to the king’s spurious second wife, and the accursed Act of Parliament that declared Henry the only head of the Church of England on Earth. King Henry’s greedy eye would soon turn to the Catholic monasteries and all they possessed. The tyrant Henry had even proclaimed that Welshmen hoping to attain eternal salvation must voice their worship—and their private and family prayer—solely in English.

They dampened their jeopardous conversation when they entered the abbey library, the seat of knowledge and industry for Clynnog’s scholars and students. Passing rows of graybeards bent over faded manuscripts, youths moving their lips, and tonsured monks spelling scripture, they took refuge in the abbot’s private study chamber. A knock soon shook the oaken door. A coltish novice entered, followed by a shrewd-looking man robed as a simple friar. The novice’s voice broke with nerves. “Abbot Seiriol. My lord. His Excellency begs leave to join you.” The boy bowed out hastily, closing the door behind him.

Before the two men could fall to their knees, the bishop grasped them both by the elbows and, with a soldier’s frankness, said in Welsh, “Nay! Our time is too short. We will not stand on ceremony.”

“We must all of us learn to do without the old ceremonies,” Abbot Seiriol conceded quietly, as he pulled three chairs together in front of a locked chest.

By the time they finished viewing the chest’s precious contents, tears were running down the abbot’s face. Bishop Ieuan spoke solemnly to the layman. “The Church of Wales is entrusting you and your descendants with a sacred duty. You must guard this treasure in utmost secrecy through these perilous times, until it can be safely returned to the Welsh people and true Christians.” He paused. “Lay your right hand on it, my son. Do you understand and accept this trust?”

“I do.”

“Will you carry it out unfailingly and hold the trust more dear than your life, wealth, or position?”

“I will. I pledge the Glynne family and all that is ours to this sacred trust.”

The bishop searched his features and finally nodded, convinced of his earnestness. With the vow complete, he clasped the nobleman’s hand as he continued. “We cannot foresee the tests God will place ahead of us. I and my brothers perchance may flee as foxes from the baying English hounds, but you must hide in plain sight. Your loyalty to the crown and all it represents must remain unquestioned.” With profound sadness, he added, “Your family may be compelled to disavow the true Church—both in public and in private practice—to preserve the trust.”

“God forbid. Will you absolve me and all my descendants of our sin if this should pass?”

“I will. Here before God and my brother abbot, I will and do.” Bishop Ieuan made the triple sign of the cross, then leaned forward to bestow the kiss of peace. “Let it be so, and may God go with you and confirm you in the trust.” They prayed, asking Saint Deiniol’s blessing and ready help in the trials to come.

When they rose from their knees, Abbot Seiriol embraced his Glynne cousin and remarked with a small smile, “I see your lady wife did not send you unprepared.” Together they lifted the abbey’s prize into the waiting linen sack—pure white and adorned with a band of lace—and buckled it in a leather satchel for the journey at hand.

_Glynne Arms. Saturday evening._

_“Achillea millefolium_ honey is too astringent for pale mead,” Bloodworth pronounced, “even if the yarrow is native.” Sherlock hummed as he keyed ratings into an elaborate spreadsheet the two had devised. Bloodworth no longer brewed mead with honey from his apiary, but he sampled the local brews wherever he traveled. With Sherlock’s advice, the undertaking was more experiment than tasting. “Compare it with the sea lavender mead,” Sherlock urged, handing him the next in a row of six bottles. “The _Limonium vulgare_ honey comes from Holywell.”

The empiricists occupied one end of a crowded table in the Glynne Arms, a stylish gastropub owned by the Gladstones. Formerly a derelict pub, two centuries old and facing the wrecking ball, the renovation had gutted the place but preserved the tin ceiling, inglenook, scarred oak bar, and some original beer taps. All new were the gleaming pine floor, warmly lit alcoves for dining, and menu boasting ingredients from the estate’s organic farm. The Saturday night crowd, a mix of locals and tourists, was lively and loud after the kitchen closed.

Over his second pint of Worthington’s Creamflow, John glared down the long table at Sherlock, huddled with Bloodworth behind a stockade of mead bottles. The git was avoiding him. On the walk to the village, he had nattered determinedly at Niall about poisonous botanicals that thrived in the distinctive soil found on the estate, deftly turning aside every one of John’s questions. Let him be that way, John thought, and took a long pull of his bitter. He nudged his chair toward Niall. “Did you see Leinster Rugby play the Ospreys in May?” He leaned in closer, raising his voice over the table’s chatter. “Andrew Conway was bloody brilliant.”

“You’re taking the mick!” John sputtered with laughter as he handed Niall his third dart.

“Am I, then?” His eyes were twinkling. “Spent countless thesis hours perfecting my throw, no mistake.” Niall’s shoulder rested against John’s, nudging him back behind the throwing line. He bounced ostentatiously, as if loosening up for the rugby world cup. “Double bull— _with me eyes closed._ ”

John groaned at the exaggerated Dublin brogue—and louder when the historian delivered the hit. “Right, that’s it. I’m knuckling under. Jesus,” he snorted ruefully, still chuckling as he ordered Niall’s rightful winnings, an O’Hara’s stout.

The library table had started to thin out after the third round, nearly an hour before. Henry, Bloodworth, and the Durham Uni professors brought over their drinks and heckled the dart players as their informal tournament heated up, but they finally called it a night, leaving John and Niall to it. Sherlock must have walked back with them: the long table held only damp beer mats and empty glasses now. The lights were lower, the music louder, and the drinking crowd shouldered around the bar.

The two men settled back against the bar to watch as the next group’s first thrower took the line. Niall sighed with satisfaction over his pint, then shot a puckish smile at John. “You’re absolute pants at darts, that’s obvious”—he yelped when John slipped him a sharp elbow to the ribs—“but I bet you were a crack medical officer.” His voice quieted. “My uncle was a RAMC medic; took a while for him . . . after Bosnia, you know. What was it like for you, coming back to London?”

***

The bottom of Sherlock’s second large pour of Lagavulin 16 was looming. He had no stomach for John’s pub nights and the slow drag of alcohol bleeding into his system, but tonight required heavy fortification. He sunk deeper into the shadows as he threw back the last warming swallow. The pub’s best scotch was scarcely enough to cushion him from the scene unfolding across the room.

Considered rationally, he couldn’t afford to care. He knew it. His best hope was not forgiveness—a traitorous dream—but amicable distance. To keep John’s competence, his indulgent warmth, his . . . fundamental John-ness, he would need to endure precisely this: John would leave him, even if he stayed. He had imagined a petite blonde, maybe a former client, mild eyes and gentle laugh, so proud of John, satisfied to live in the gaps between the surgery and the Work. He would tolerate her. Why was this so much harder?

But John Watson was an apostate to predictability; it was one of his many charms. Sherlock reluctantly acknowledged this prospective helpmeet: athletic and fit, not entirely stupid, charming John to talk and laugh and play. They were a handsome couple, Niall and his John. Not his.

The two were a picture of perfect comity, John’s head nearly nestling on the man’s shoulder as they spoke quietly. Had John ever talked to him like that? Did he listen? Niall was listening. And drinking a new pint, a different shade of amber than the last. The self-absorbed churl had acquired a fresh drink, while John’s empty glass still stood at his elbow. An instant of cold wrath found him at the bar. “Another Lagavulin, please, and a Worthington’s for the gentleman in the checked shirt. Yes, he’s the one.”

***

“Oi! This pint’s for you.” The bartender touched John’s shoulder as he slapped down a beer mat and the glass.

“Thanks, but I didn’t order another,” John protested.

“Bloke sent it.”

“What? Who sent it?”

“Don’t know, mate. Toff in a dark suit, English.” The bartender shrugged as he pulled the taps over two more glasses.

“Funny,” Niall said, checking the abandoned table. “Maybe Sherlock’s still here. Do you want to look for him?”

John’s eyes swept the room, sorting and ruling out, suddenly on alert. The detective was nowhere in sight. “No,” he sighed. “He’ll find us if he’s around. It’s hot in here—let’s go outside.”

Taking their drinks, the two claimed a bench in a dim corner of the pub’s back garden. Tendrils of music and laughter drifted through the open door and ebbed into the night air. Stretching his legs, Niall looked at John for a long moment, a flush rising in his cheeks. “You know, I first heard your name a couple of weeks ago—hard to miss, when Sherlock came back. I never read the blog or any of that, not my thing, but Henry showed me this afternoon.” He looked down. “I like you, John, and I don’t want to put my foot in it. Are you two together?”

It was a compact question, but not an easy one. John looked to the clear, dark sky as he considered it. Finally he just started talking, oddly relieved to be telling the story to someone he trusted. “We were, before. Happiest time of my life—followed by the very worst, bar none.” When John glanced over, Niall’s eyes were soft. “It wasn’t even three months, Niall. Then the suicide, the funeral. Two gray years. The lies, so fucking many. I don’t know what we are now, really, but we’re working together. That’s good, that feels good, mostly. I don’t think we can be the same again. Don’t think I can, and he’s changed too.”

They sat for a long time, hearing distant music and voices, but listening to the companionable silence. Slowly Niall slid an arm around John’s shoulders, easing him closer. “Think it’d be okay if I kissed you?”

“Yeah,” John said, feeling something hard relax in his chest. “Yeah, I think that would be good.”

John slid into the kiss gratefully, like a deep bath after a sandy day on patrol. Niall’s mouth was easy and warm, slipping across his with welcome familiarity. With another soft brushing kiss, he coaxed John’s lips open. John’s drink was still sloshing in one hand. Fingers glancing across John’s, he smoothly snared the rim and bent to tuck the glass under the bench. John tried to catch his lips again, but Niall veered off, dragging his stubbled cheek across the plane of his jaw, nipping at the soft skin under his ear. John pulled him closer, surprised at the affection he already felt, and tangled his hand in his hair—thick and straight, a bit overgrown. So unlike Sherlock’s, that clung around John’s fingers and smelled of lime and something indefinably dusty, like old books and peat.

That dear shattered skull on St. Bart’s sidewalk, spilling gore into the curls.

John pulled back with a gasp, a ghost of serpentine locks still teasing his fingertips. “Damn! Damn. Give me a minute.” He was breathing hard, eyes pinched against one thought too many. “It’s no good, Niall,” he bit out. “I want to, but I can’t—not tonight.” He swallowed thickly, blinking, and willed him to understand. “I’m sorry about it, too. God, I really am.” He leaned in for one more small sip of Niall’s soft mouth, hating the regret clouding his brown eyes. “Just—not tonight, all right?”

***

Sherlock slipped into the narrow back alley, the staff’s shortcut from their car park to the kitchen door. He settled silently against the grubby wall behind the garden bench, nearly as close to John and Niall as they were to each other. He saw that they were quiet together, intimate. After two years on the hunt, he felt a coiled comfort in watching and waiting. In Matsuyama, he had lurked under rubbish in an alley far worse than this one for thirty-seven hours before he struck.

That was surveillance. John would tell him that this particular strain of observation was something else, and a bit not good. But he needed it—it was medicinal. He needed to build his tolerance with regular use, alone, so that later, under John’s kind eyes, he could survive a near overdose.

They were kissing.

The hit was unexpectedly pure, but this was no blissful drift into sleep. It was the naloxone, the abject vomiting, the ache in the bones.

***

He’d never live down the darts loss. Niall left him with a parting insult and an invitation to kick around the football tomorrow, assuming he and Henry slept off their hangovers. Pint in hand and still smiling, John looked after him, tracing his streamlined silhouette as he stepped from the garden through the golden glow of the pub door. Then eyes forward, at parade rest, he took a long drink and breathed, in and out.

“John.” Sherlock stood motionless in the alley an arm’s length behind the bench.

“Figured you’d show up before long,” John said.


	5. Rheol

_Glynne Arms. Saturday night._

“John, I—”

“No. Nope.” He didn’t turn his head. The crowd was thinning inside the pub; John was alone on the patio now. An expectant hush fell as he took a long, slow drink. “Be quiet now, Sherlock.”

It was a question, and the alert silence from the alley was answer enough.

“I’m going to finish my pint. You wait there—not a word, not one move.” He raised his lukewarm bitter to his lips. The night air hung around them, stirred only by a tiny settling sound in the alley.

“Good. One more thing,” John said matter-of-factly, as if offering digestives with tea. “Close your eyes. There’s been enough looking for tonight.”

_Gladstone estate. Thursday evening._

The stakes were double or quits. Sophia Brunton was traveling very light, carrying only her keys, the map, a ballpoint pen, and 500 quid. If all went well, she would be back at her cottage not long after dark, loading the suitcase on her bed with an incalculable treasure and preparing to disappear before dawn—to America, perhaps, where the audacity that furnished Gilded Age mansions lived on in some collectors. If her plan went down the tubes, she might need to make an even quicker escape. However the game played out, she would slip away soon—alone. But at the moment, her future depended on Rhobert.

They sat together in the hollow where the Glynne Oak once grew, watching the sun slide lower over the keep. Rhobert was getting fidgety. Sophia almost felt sorry for him. For his own good, really, she had told him very little: she could count on the thrill of the search to keep him quiet now and his own complicity to silence him after she fled. The less he knew, the safer they both were—but he did like to be useful. She would send him soon for supplies.

First, to find out what else he knew. “The oak must have been magnificent,” she marveled, snuggling closer and twining her ankle between his. “I should have liked to see it.” She turned and brushed a kiss across his jaw. “Of course, you were quite young—I don’t suppose you remember how tall it was?”

He leaned over to return her kiss, one hand gently catching the elastic band at her nape. She bent her head to pull free and shook out the thick ponytail, just as he liked. Rhobert mused for a moment as he smoothed her hair. “Welsh oaks are like no other tree, _cariad._ ” He saw her confusion. “Their dignity grows across the centuries as they live with the people. They’re important. They claim so much space—they’re as broad as they are tall.” Not very specific, Sophia grumbled inwardly.

Rhobert wasn’t finished. “Old Mr. Gladstone understood: he wanted to save some part of the Glynne Oak. There are a great many photos, but he wanted something more. He asked for a slice of the finest burr and hired a local man to make it into a coffee table for his study.” This was hardly the kind of information Sophia needed, and still he droned on; she nuzzled against his hand and made what she hoped was an encouraging sound.

“He also wanted a final set of measurements; I’m sure it was for the botany study at Bangor Uni that tracks the oldest oaks. My grandfather let me and Pedr—he’s my cousin, you know—hold the tape as they measured the girth. And I remember how they took the height by sighting along a forty-five degree angle.” He slid away and raised his arm to demonstrate the angle.

“Do you recall the height?” she pressed.

It was a step too far. “Aye.” The groundsman appraised her coolly. “Show me the map first.”

***

Awake behind closed eyelids, Sherlock was listening to John Watson.

The third Lagavulin smoldered past his endothelial cells, penetrating the pia mater and licking at his orderly cerebral cortex. Yes, he decided, as he propped his back more solidly against the streaked brick wall: John was quite clever, really, to suggest giving up looking. The evening’s skulking had left him with only hateful images of John, at the ruins, at darts, at the lips of . . . no.

 _Not tonight,_ John had said. Quite right. Tonight was for listening to John. Listening, he drifted—almost happy—and conjured another night too long ago, when he woke before dawn in the marine dimness of their bed and opened his eyes to John in his RAMC t-shirt, battered to a sheer, faded navy. His whole world became that hue. And Sherlock rested against the bricks and thought of not looking, and of John’s complicated navy eyes.

“Sherlock.” A strong hand gripped his chin. “You with me, Sherlock?” When he blinked, the doctor was standing between his feet, brow furrowed. Sherlock followed his gaze as it flicked clinically from pupil to pupil. John leaned in and sniffed. “Single malt,” he pronounced, and paused. “All right? I want you to remember what I say.”

 _Not a word,_ Sherlock recalled with a modicum of pride, so he rolled his eyes.

“Well, there you are,” John chuckled, then the good humor bled out of his voice, and the soldier stood in front of Sherlock. “You put yourself at risk tonight, Sherlock. Careless, stupid risk. You hotfooted it out of dinner with no backup. Ignored my messages—”

“I was at—”

“Shut it. The details don’t matter right now. You chose to carry on the Brunton investigation alone.” John’s eyes ranged over the detective, pointedly touching on the gray strands at his temples, his narrow chest under the open jacket, the trousers hanging a bit loose. “You’ve been a lone wolf, maybe an assassin”—John did not miss Sherlock’s flinch—“for two years. Look where it’s got you.”

Curiously on edge, Sherlock stared at the smaller man. John made his point. “You’re scarred, and even though you’re back home, you’re still hiding.”

Sherlock pushed off the wall and stretched to his full height, suddenly ready to put an end to this. “I hardly think—” He felt his scapulae returned to the alley wall, John’s shoulder neatly lodged in his sternum. He huffed in a shallow breath, closed his mouth, and waited.

Satisfied, John released him and stood, his eyes level with Sherlock’s and unwavering. “That’s what’s remarkable about tonight, Sherlock. You didn’t think. You were thoughtless—not once, but twice. You took an impulsive risk for the investigation.” His tone darkened. “Then you decided to chuck in the towel and spy on me instead.”

John was crowding him now, and Sherlock felt dizzy from the scotch or from John’s familiar, foreign warmth. “Did you think I wouldn’t know, wouldn’t feel you watching?” John’s voice was low and dangerous. “Or did you get a thrill from the power of that, watching Niall get closer while you waited for the balance to shift—for the moment when I _knew,_ when I focused on you instead of him?” John snarled, “Did you enjoy it? Tell me. Talk!”

Sherlock turned his face away, a shameful flush rising up his throat. Oh, God—oh, no no no. He was hard. He was lost.

***

Sophia was pacing. She paused near the center of the dip where the oak once grew to check the position of the sun. Still close to an hour, she guessed, before the glare would be low enough to catch on the keep’s craggy stones, casting long shadows across the lawn. Rhobert was proving remarkably difficult to manage. She had been forced to show him the careful diagram drawn on the special collection room’s yellow paper—but of course, the map by itself was nearly useless. She wondered if he realized how much remained unsaid.

Rhobert was returning from one of the outbuildings carrying a ball of twine, three garden stakes, and a tape measure. She watched his eyes on her, absurdly sharp, as he approached. This would never do—time to put things back on the proper footing. She took a deep breath and acted. A smile broke across her face, a beam brighter than the lowering sun. “There you are, my love,” she said. “Splendid! This will do perfectly.” And taking the ball of string, she reeled him in by his webbing belt. How she loathed it: green and white stripes woven with gaudy red dragons. Impossibly provincial, it was the Welsh flag or maybe some reference to Wales national football—she didn’t know or care. She dropped her eyes for an instant to the small compass he wore hooked to the belt. Melting against his chest, she kissed him.

The sun was lower now. They were sitting again, leaning against one another while Rhobert methodically measured and knotted the string at meter intervals. He looped the twine neatly around the stake it was tied to when he finished. “Here’s sixty meters,” he said, setting the bundle aside and turning to cock an eyebrow at her. “Isn’t it time to tell me exactly what we’re doing?”

“No,” she said, as she stood to confirm the sun’s position. “It’s time to show you.” She drove the stake with the coil of string into the spot where the tree once grew. “You’re over six feet, aren’t you, love?” He nodded. “A bit shy of two meters, then,” she murmured. “Stand here, please.” Rhobert stood, one foot on each side of the stake. She shaped herself against him and purred in his ear, “Now tell me, how tall was the Glynne Oak?”

***

Again, John rasped into Sherlock’s silence, “Did you enjoy watching me with Niall?” He threaded his fingers into Sherlock’s curls and turned his face forward. “None of that—no more hiding,” came his surprisingly gentle reproach. “Show me your eyes.”

Sherlock submitted to his scrutiny, overcome, his pupils enormous in the poorly lit alleyway. His mind babbled denials until his mouth finally took up the chorus. “No! No, it was horrid,” he moaned, despairing. John was looking, he was seeing, he was observing, he would leave.

John took in Sherlock’s dark eyes, his burning face, then idly, inevitably, looked downward. His expression impassive, he crooked his knee and lightly stroked his thigh against Sherlock’s erection, just once, before he stepped back fractionally. “Horrid?” he asked conversationally.

“Beastly . . . not you, that is, it was. It was—” With a wrenching effort, Sherlock stopped the gush of words. He closed his eyes against John’s continuing inspection, but a light tug on his hair jarred them open. Breathless now, he tried again. “I am not a voyeur, John. I was not _aroused”_ —he spat the word—“by watching you with Niall.” Sherlock swallowed down the bile at the back of his throat. “But I needed to do it, I needed the exposure, don’t you see?” John seemed skeptical. Sherlock blundered on, grasping for something familiar. “Habituation, John. Naturally. After repeated presentation of the stimulus, we can expect my response to decline.”

John was watching him with a trace of amusement in his blue eyes, before the look became more calculating. “You’re not turned on by watching,” John summarized succinctly.

Sherlock shook his head, then ventured to add, “Although I became quite skilled at surveillance. It protected me—it feels . . . safe.”

John nodded thoughtfully, shifting so close that Sherlock could feel his heat leaching into the night air. He continued. “Habituation. You expect to see me with lovers. You don’t like it. You think watching will help deaden your reaction.” Fair enough, Sherlock thought, and inclined his head in agreement. He straightened up, a bit smugly; the methodical conversation was helping him regain control. Then John leaned forward, touching him nowhere but overwhelmingly near, and voiced a new hypothesis into Sherlock’s ear. “You’re aroused by some other stimulus, then. Is it this?” Harsh and low, he commanded, _“Tell me.”_

Sherlock grew conscious of a faint sound, sustained and low, moving in linear counterpoint to the lub-dub of his own ventricular systole. The sound caught in his throat, and his humiliation was absolute. Sherlock was whimpering—albeit rather tunefully—propped against John Watson’s sturdy right shoulder. When he opened his eyes, he beheld John’s checkered back and, below on the alley floor, a limp fast food box. John capably set him back on his feet and settled him against the wall. The care he took was hateful: worse than being alone, almost.

 _This is how it could be,_ John thought, and he looked at Sherlock—really looked—for the first time since his homecoming. He was luminous: concealing nothing, pliant with alcohol, arousal, and something wholly unexpected. John’s anger burned away in the face of it all, and a hundred reservations aside, he wanted to touch him. But it had been ten years, before Afghanistan, since John had played at soldier, and this thing with Sherlock was no game. He had just one more question. For the good of them both, he stepped away before asking it. “Is this new?”

Sherlock regarded him warily, drawing an unsteady breath before he spoke. “I don’t know,” he replied softly. “Maybe. We never—” He looked away, blinking hard. “There hasn’t been anyone else.”

John felt sorrow pulling him under, a tsunami rushing to fill the fissures where old anger once formed a bedrock. He brushed tender fingertips along Sherlock’s cheekbone and cupped his face forward. Sherlock measured him, then his eyes cut away again, flashing silver like fish scales in fast-moving water. “You don’t want this,” he said.

John didn’t. Not now, not like this. He shook his head, then pivoted and slumped on the wall next to Sherlock, bumping shoulders. Both men stared ahead into the quiet dark. Like a ripple across the night air, Sherlock’s next words reached him. “My only desire is to stop compounding the pain I’ve caused you.” His tone was bleak, almost past hope. “May I ask what you do want from me?”

John heard the yells of some drunken punters in front of the pub echo through the hushed alleyway, then fade. The bricked-in space felt familiar and private. “I called you a ‘machine’ that last day, before you jumped,” he sidestepped. “That was—God, Sherlock, that was one of the last things I told you—do you have any idea . . . ?” He scrubbed the heel of his hand hard across both eyes. Sherlock shifted next to him. “I knew I was wrong even as I said it. But you were wrong, too.”

“I said, ‘Alone protects me.’”

“That’s as foolish today as it was then.” John laid one finger on the twisted scar above Sherlock’s collar. “All I’ve ever needed from you,” he finally answered, “is the truth. I want you to stop hiding.” He smiled, a warm flash in the shadowy alley. “You’re not hiding right now.”

Sherlock met his eyes, and John saw a degree of serenity there. “I must apologize,” Sherlock said crisply, gathering himself. “I will discontinue my efforts at habituation immediately.” John nodded at this considerable concession. They rested against their wall companionably as the night flowed on around them.

It was closing time; pub employees began to dribble through the alley in ones and twos. “You want a minute to get yourself sorted?” John suggested quietly. “I’ll wait around front. I could use a breather myself before we walk back.” Sherlock managed a small smile at John’s practicality. He trailed a few steps behind as John rounded the corner. _He was leaving._ No, that was ridiculous—he was not. He said he would not, and John did not lie.

Sherlock stood in the Glynne Arms’ carpark, mostly empty now, and regretfully shut a mental door between himself and John Watson. Buttoning his jacket over the stubborn erection, he closed his eyes, steepled his fingertips, and stepped into the mind palace’s simulacrum of 221A Baker Street. The best bit of Mrs. Hudson’s flat was the array of fairy cakes in the kitchen, but the wardrobe had its uses. With a sigh, he began to catalogue by color, leather finish, and heel style Mrs. Hudson’s extensive collection of Clarks pumps.

***

 _Anwylyd_ _anffyddlon_.[1] His beloved was doing sums in her head; she imagined he didn’t recognize her deceit. Rhobert was thinking of Ceridwen, the enchantress who lived by Bala Lake. He’d like to take Sophia to _Llyn Tegid,_ that stony, clear lake of Gwynedd—if she loved him, he’d take her there.[2] Ceridwen lied to Gwion. The boy stirred Ceridwen’s magical cauldron for months, until his innocent mistake gave him wisdom she secretly meant for another. Then she chased Gwion, pursued and discarded him through an endless cycle of death and rebirth and death. She wouldn’t let him go.

“Right here, Rhobert,” Sophia crooned, nudging the spot with her toe. “Put the second one here.” And Rhobert plunged the sharp stake into the Welsh earth.

Rhobert had missed an important calculation, but at least he was holding the compass. That had to count for something. They started stepping at the second stake near the castle's earthworks. The steps were not marked on Sophia’s map, but he would remember them. Her voice shivered in his ear—almost soothing, the pattern of cardinal directions and strides, ten long steps with each foot, five steps, and so on, circling ever narrower.

No, surely not here. Sophia was talking. “—approximate, but I understand that Welsh oaks gain very little height after a certain age.” He frowned. She urged him on, affecting enthusiasm that did not suit her. “Put the third stake here, Rhobert. We’re within a meter or two of the treasure!” They were standing on rocky soil by the towering arched windows of the ruin's sole remaining wall. She finally took the stake from his hand, thrust it in, and stamped it nearly level with the earth.

Pocketing the compass, he swallowed, and then pointed to the windows. “This is the castle's chapel.” He played here as a child; he knew the place like the back of his hand. “We’re practically on top of the altar. Are you sure this is the right place?”

There was a strange light in her eyes, but she said airily, “Of course! It makes perfect sense. The Stanleys must have thought their riches would be safe here.” She was ready to move on. “We need full darkness before we dig. Can you find shovels and a torch or lantern? We’ll leave this stake, but we’d better clear away the rest of the markers.”

English people were different—he knew it—yet he felt his stomach twist at the thought of taking anything from the chapel. No Welshman would ever leave unconsecrated wealth on an altar, intending to steal it back later. It was profane, too unprincipled even for English lords. It dishonored their own family altar . . . if Sophia was to be believed, and the treasure belonged to the Stanleys. He did not believe her. She was double-crossing him, although he didn’t know precisely how. He meant to find out, if possible without breaking this earth.

But perhaps he was being too hasty. He looked at her, buoyant with discovery, a pink flush tinting her cheeks, and he felt himself soften. Maybe she truly did want to share this with him. She refused to explain her research, but possibly she didn’t know herself exactly what was under this soil or how it came to be here. They could talk about it. “ _Fy anwylyd_ ,” he tried reasonably, “nightfall is still an hour away. Lights will be on at the new castle for at least two more hours. Let’s clean up here and then get something to eat. How about the Glynne Arms? It will be quiet on a Thursday. We’ll wait there and talk.”

Sophia’s mind spun. His offer could topple the entire precarious plan. She couldn’t risk being seen with Rhobert: no hint of a connection with the Gladstone estate could color her escape. She didn’t want to talk—the less said, the better—or waste precious time. “Oh, no, love. Let’s wait here,” she said, reaching out to caress his arm. “I don’t even have my handbag; I wasn’t planning on dinner out.”

He blinked at her. “Don’t be silly. It’s my treat.” Slipping an arm around her waist, he nudged her toward the keep and the trail down to Hawarden.

She was too fast for him. She spun in his arms, suddenly mutinous, and her frantic weight tumbled them against the chapel wall. Already panting, she slid hard up his body and pinned his shoulders with her forearms as she tugged him in by his curls for a determined kiss. It was coarse and wet, more tongue and teeth than lips. “I don’t want to talk,” she hissed, nibbling under his jaw. “I don’t want to eat.” She nipped hard on his throat. “I want this.”

She was a fury, she was Ceridwen in pursuit, Rhobert thought as he gasped out her name, not quite protesting. He tried to gentle the kiss, nudging his chin down to catch her lips, but she fell harder against him, already snaking a hand between their bodies to cup and work him. He was Gwion, he was running on slick stones by Bala Lake. She would use him and abandon him: it only remained to discover how.

 _“Dydych ti ddim yn rheol yma, fy_ _Ceridwen,_ ” he growled, and catching both of her wrists, held her taut a tiny margin from his chest.[3] She arched, showing him her lovely breasts, but he saw that her fever was a masquerade. Pulling her wrists toward the darkening sky, he rolled her against the rough stones.

“Yes, love.” She moaned and stretched up for a kiss. “Oh, Rhobert.”

He murmured against her throat with single-minded passion, “ _Anghywir._ ” She dropped her head back, groaning at his low voice. Pressing her wrists hard, he fiercely whispered another rolling word: “ _Anffyddlon._ ”[4] He bent and kissed her with sweet regret before he stepped away.

“It’s enough,” he said.  
___________________________________________

[1] _Anwylyd_ _anffyddlon._ (Unfaithful beloved.)

[2] _Llyn Tegid_ (Bala Lake) is a large lake in Snowdonia National Park, about 55 kilometers (35 miles) from Hawarden.

[3] _Dydych ti ddim yn rheol yma, fy_ _Ceridwen._ (You do not rule here, my Ceridwen.)

[4] _Anghywir._ (Untrue.) _Anffyddlon._ (Unfaithful.)


	6. Stone

_Gladstone’s Library. Sunday morning._

_Inattention spoiled the_ _titration._

Sherlock tossed fitfully on the narrow bed.

_Titrant dripping from the burette, crystalline. Glucose reduces cupric ions to cuprous ions. They react with potassium thiocyanate, the white precipitate settling softly as snow in the Erlenmeyer flask. Endpoint passed, endpoint past._

Fretting, he rolled to his side, his spine stretching into a long meniscus.

_John assessing pupil dilation, attentive. Fond face creased, shattering into white, a concentrated analyte. “Show me your eyes.” Titration curve highly irregular. Cogitating brooding repining, fetal on 221B’s sofa. Mouth: sticky and sour. Creaking door, probing light. “Sherlock? Come on, love. Sherlock.” John carrying tea, his shadow descending for a kiss—_

“Sherlock? Wake up. I brought some coffee.” John was leaning over him, gently shaking his shoulder. Dazzling June sun streamed through the paned windows and assaulted Sherlock’s eyes. Consciousness crackled under his skin.

“John. It hurts.”

Sherlock dropped to his back and squinted up at John expectantly. The doctor sat on the edge of the bed, smiling, and cocked his head at the bedside table. Two paracetamol tablets and a tall glass of water waited there, alongside the coffees. Sherlock struggled onto one elbow and fumbled for the white tablets.

“You look pretty rough,” John observed. “For you, that is.” He had the temerity to sound amused. John’s hair was damp from the shower; he smelled of frost and spicy soap. “How many scotches was it?”

Sherlock groaned. He threw back the water, then collapsed bonelessly on his pillow. “Three. Along with the mead. And sherry.”

“There’s a deadly mixture,” John teased. His gaze felt warmer than the morning light falling across Sherlock’s face.

“Deadly?”

“Well, not actually lethal, I think. I’m pretty sure.” John reached out, almost casually, to push Sherlock’s tangled fringe off his forehead. His fingers lingered there for a moment while he thought something over; Sherlock held his breath. Finally John looked squarely at him. When he spoke again, tension registered in his level voice. “I need to know how clearly you remember last night. What we talked about in the alley.”

Sherlock swallowed, ruthlessly crushing a peculiar crest of shyness. “Don’t be ridiculous, John,” he scoffed, silently cursing the flush rising across his cheekbones. “I recall the entire evening perfectly.” He resisted the impulse to close his eyes, staring back at John defiantly, but a few more words stumbled out unbidden. “That’s the truth.”

John’s shoulders relaxed, and approval crinkled in the corners of his eyes. “Good. That’s . . . very good, then.” He picked up one of the coffees, while Sherlock propped himself higher against the pillow. “You’d better have this—medicinal for your condition, you know.” Handing off the paper cup, he stood. “What’s the plan for this morning?”

“The reading room,” Sherlock said without hesitation. “We have some calculations to complete. Then on to the station to interview Rhobert Hywel before he’s released.”

John nodded crisply. “Breakfast is at 8:30,” he said. “You’ve got twenty minutes. I’ll meet you downstairs.” He paused and added, immovable, “Don’t even think about skipping it, Sherlock.” After a perfunctory grumble, the detective watched through his cup’s rising steam as John grabbed the manila case folder and his coffee and stepped out. On the edge of his memory, a new titration was under way, clean, methodical, and productive.

_Gladstone estate. Thursday night._

It was dark enough to dig.

The past two hours had crept by, with Rhobert glowering down from a roost on the crumbling wall of the keep. He wanted to keep an eye out, he said—but Sophia suspected she was the object of his scrutiny, she was the one he meant to keep at bay. Across the courtyard, Sophia leaned against the chapel wall and worried.

Suddenly, a compact motion streaked across her vision: Rhobert, springing from the wall in an agile tuck. He landed in a clean crouch, stood, and coolly approached. She needed him—needed him to cooperate and play his part—but this was not the fond and accommodating Rhobert she knew. A sudden thrill shocked through her, part arousal and part fear.

Rhobert faced her, his expression revealing nothing. “Have you changed your mind, _cariad?_ ” he asked. The endearment sounded dangerous on his lips. “Are you ready to end this game?”

“No!” she protested. Surely it was not too late to convince him. “No, love, not when we’ve already come so far.” She stepped closer, not quite daring to touch him, but heated, intimate. She would beg if she had to. “Please, Rhobert. You promised to help me.” She looked up at him through her eyelashes. “And you know it’s not a game. I love you.”

“Do you?” he looked down at her, unmoved. “Then you should let me end it. I’ll leave right now. You can stay or go, whatever you choose, and I’ll never tell a soul.”

“No!” She shook her head violently and clutched at his shoulders. “No. You’ll do this for me, Rhobert. Stay and help me dig. Please. Don’t betray me.”

He closed his eyes, rigid and silent, and replied. _“_ _Fy anwylyd_ _._ We should be faithful, then, to all we’ve promised?”

“Yes,” she swore, solemn as an oath.

The night veiled his face, just inches from hers. “So be it.”

***

Propped at the base of the chapel wall, the old lantern cast an otherworldly glow across the stony soil. Rhobert was digging efficiently with a well-worn shovel. It was good that one of them could put some muscle into it, Sophia thought, as she feebly chipped away with her shovel.

Rhobert was rapidly opening a knee-deep hole when his shovel gave a solid thunk. He edged the hole wider and began tapping at the obstruction. Sophia dropped her useless tool and fell to her knees beside Rhobert’s excavation. It was too dark. She fumbled for her keychain; with any luck, its small LED light still had some juice. Yes—dim, but better than nothing. She played the tiny light across the bottom of the hole, while Robert cleared away the remaining loose dirt with the side of his shovel.

Rugged flagstones met their eyes. “Dig wider,” Sophia breathed.

Rhobert quickly widened the hole to nearly two meters, flanked by neat piles of stones and soil. He stepped inside and, kneeling, brushed the flagstone surface clear with one hand. “My grandfather tried to turf this area, but the grass would never grow. He thought there was a foundation below spoiling the drainage.” He ran his fingers reverently across the ancient stones. “He was wrong. It’s the chapel floor.”

_Abbey of Bangor Fawr. 780._

Brother Govan was old. Nearly forty autumns had passed since he journeyed north along Cymru’s rugged coast to a new home in the great monastery at Bangor. He was a mere sprout of a boy then, but now he felt his years as he stretched his aching neck to each side. After a glance at his wax tablet, he bent again over the large sheet of vellum pinned to his desk. _In principio erat Verbum:_ in the beginning was the Word. Saint John’s great truth—expertly penned by Brother Tysilio—twined its tendrils across his desk and his soul.

The ornamented initial letter had been under his hand for five weeks; today he would paint its final strokes. He dipped the gossamer brush with painstaking care into a tiny pot of ultramarine. More costly than gold, the Persian stone called lapis lazuli made an intense mineral paint bluer than the eye of heaven over the Irish Sea. His brush met the vellum in a precise wedge, defining an intricate braided knot in the initial serpent’s eye.

Bangor Fawr’s saint was wise and ascetic, Govan reflected as he worked, yet it was said that, in life, he welcomed bold travelers—musicians, seamen, scholars, and princes—and personally designed the abbey’s lush gardens. A touch of whimsy and exotic color would honor him well. The scribe paused for a moment to amend his wax sketch. A wee peacock would bow from his perch on the page’s neat letters, flaunting feathers of ultramarine.

_Gladstone’s Library. Sunday morning._

As 8:30 approached, Bloodworth hurried to the lounge to fill his Hay Festival mug with the library’s strong coffee. John was already here, he noticed, trading good-humored barbs with Niall Madigan over paper cups of the brew. He topped up his cup and walked over to join the two younger men, both sprawling in comfortable leather chairs but gesturing energetically.

 “—most certainly _not_ afraid! I simply know when I’m beat. I’m pants at it, remember?” the doctor griped.

“True enough,” Niall mused, “but that’s not to say you’re entirely unteachable.”

“Entirely! Well, that’s—”

“Gentlemen,” Bloodworth broke in over their banter with mock dismay, as he claimed a nearby chair. “I confess myself surprised at you. Here you sit in this august institution—on the Lord’s Day, nonetheless—rehashing your public house rivalry.” He grinned. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

The answer was a cacophony of boasts, jeers, outcry, and recrimination. Bloodworth sipped his coffee with serene satisfaction and enjoyed the fireworks. When the breakfast gong rang, he glanced up over John’s shoulder. There was Sherlock. He stood gazing a bit blearily out the bay window while his long fingers industriously shredded a paper coffee cup. Perhaps he didn’t see them. “Holmes!” Bloodworth called as they rose. “Do give your poor cup a rest and walk in with us."

Still holding the tattered cup, the detective joined them almost diffidently, then cleared his throat and nodded with well-bred courtesy to Niall. At that, John smiled and settled an arm across Sherlock’s shoulder; he leaned close to whisper a few words, while Bloodworth and the historian fell in step behind. “Habituation? No need, Sherlock,” Bloodworth thought he heard. Inexplicable—but clear enough was the trail his capable fingers drew down the detective’s spine, until they came to rest on the curve of his lower back. Niall and the bookman exchanged an eloquent glance as the doctor ushered his flatmate into breakfast.

***

John, Bloodworth, and Niall were tucking into the library’s Sunday buffet like starving men. It was Sherlock’s first meal in twenty-four hours: at John’s insistence, he was nibbling at a rasher of bacon, with rich porridge and toast with honey still to come.

“May I, Holmes?” Bloodworth asked, and leaned over to dip his fork into the sticky pool around Sherlock’s toast. “Local _Calluna vulgaris_ honey—quite nice,” he said, his smile encompassing both Sherlock and John. Turning across the table to the medievalist, he asked, “What are your plans for this morning, Madigan?”

“Mass at Chester cathedral,” Niall replied around a mouthful of poached egg. “Henry is driving. Will you join us?”

“Thank you, but no,” he said. “There’s a first-rate baritone soloist in from Cardiff this week at St. Deiniol’s. I believe I’ll duck out just for an hour, assuming Holmes and Watson can spare me.”

His tone intent, Sherlock asked, “St. Deiniol’s?”

Bloodworth waved his fork dismissively. “Yes, St. Deiniol’s is the local parish church—Church in Wales, part of the Anglican Communion. It’s just on the edge of the estate, not five minutes from here.”

John set down his fork and leaned forward. “Deiniol—”

Niall jumped in without raising his head; he was busy dissecting a scone. “For sure. Deiniol Sant is a local favorite. This library was called St. Deiniol’s Library— _Llyfrgell Deiniol Sant_ in Welsh—until a few years ago.”

“Who was he?” John asked.

“One of Gwynedd’s most revered saints,” Niall said, picking up bites of buttery scone with his fingers. “He was the first Bishop of Bangor. He founded the Abbey of Bangor Fawr on the Menai Strait—a learned and prosperous community, until the Vikings wiped it out.” He sucked the butter off his thumb with a satisfied pop. “Bangor cathedral, on the abbey’s old site, is dedicated to Deiniol, as well as the church here in Hawarden.”

“You called him Deiniol Sant in Welsh,” Sherlock advanced. “Have you ever heard of a Deiniol Gwyn?”

“Absolutely.” Niall leaned back with his coffee, clearly enjoying the exchange. Sherlock had switched to sweet tea; he peered at the medievalist over the rim and raised an eyebrow in encouragement. Niall glanced over at John, then chuckled. “It’s an older name for the saint, but still in use. It means Deiniol the Blessed.”

Bloodworth’s groan carried across the dining room. _“Blessed!_ Blessed, not White. Well, it’s your own fault, Holmes, for relying on me to read Welsh.” The bookman slumped back looking distinctly chagrined, but Sherlock was already on to the next thing, his eyes assessing Niall like an unfamiliar chemical reaction.

“Tell us everything,” he ordered. “Tell us about his abbey.”

Now Niall seemed confused. “For the investigation?”

John smiled warmly at him. “We don’t know exactly where this will lead, but anything you can tell us might help.”

“Okay,” he said, rallying. “Deiniol founded the abbey, probably in the 540s, with land and patronage from the king of Gwynedd. The location was really prime: on the Irish Sea, but sheltered in the Menai Strait.” He pulled out his phone. “Do you want to see a map?”

Sherlock snorted and waved a hand for him to continue. “Right then,” Niall said, and plowed on. “Deiniol built an important scriptorium and library. The site allowed the abbey to exchange learning with other monasteries in Wales and Ireland—I’m here to study that bit—and trade with the wider world.”

His expression turned serious as he concluded his impromptu lecture. “But that choice real estate also made them vulnerable to attack. Vikings sacked the abbey several times, and finally destroyed it in 1073. No one survived. There were other big abbeys on the north Wales coast, but none of them—not even Saint Bueno’s abbey in Clynnog—was hit as hard as Bangor Fawr.”

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his hands steepled under his chin and his breakfast forgotten. “Vikings thought the place was worth plundering,” he observed, snapping open his pale eyes. “What sort of wealth did the abbey have?”

“The usual,” Niall said. “Gold, silver, jewels, spices and incense, valuable textiles. Land privileges and tithing would have brought in lots of cash.”

Bloodworth puffed out a pained breath. “The abbey’s greatest gem was its library. Who know how many masterpieces like the Book of Kells were lost—all lost.”

Niall nodded wistfully. “There were several major scriptoriums in Wales, but not one complete gospel like the Book of Kells survives.”

“Thank you, Niall,” Sherlock said with a small but genuine smile, as he stood and pulled out John’s chair, a clear signal. “I don’t suppose you know what the Welsh word _Cristnogion_ means?” he queried in parting.

Niall chewed on his lip. “Well, my Latin and Gaelic are much better than my Welsh, but I can tell it’s a plural. I’m going to guess ‘Christians.’ Not far off from _Christianos_ and _Críostaithe,_ really.” John lingered for a moment over the good-byes, but Sherlock was already out the door, beating a path to the reading room.

***

_North Wales Police station. Sunday morning._

A full Welsh breakfast of eggs, bacon, and laverbread was on Rhobert Hywel’s plate this morning: the Welsh liaison officer made sure of it. As he hurried past to a meeting on the Brunton case called by Gordon Frye, Constable Lloyd handed the custody sergeant a takeaway bag from the best café in Buckley. With any luck, the crispy seaweed and oatmeal cakes—comfort food for any Welshman—would keep up Rhobert’s spirits until he could bring the man some news.

Frye, Mary Eaton, and two junior officers were already crowded around the small conference table reviewing the previous night’s search when Constable Lloyd arrived. Constable Eaton had questioned Pedr Blevins, Hywel’s flatmate. She slid over to make room without pausing. “Hywel arrived home late on Thursday night, close to midnight. Blevins was in bed and did not come out of his room or speak with the suspect, but he heard him walk through the flat and close his bedroom door. Later, he thought he heard him in the lounge. He jarred awake when Hywel left the flat around 4:00 a.m.”

“Reg Gladstone spoke with Hywel on Friday morning just after 6:00,” Constable Frye remarked. “He was in early to work. He has some time to account for there.”

Constable Lloyd frowned, but spoke carefully. “Hywel admits he talked with Brunton on Wednesday afternoon—she approached him at the estate—but he says that’s the last time he saw her. At the moment, there’s no evidence to contradict his statement. We haven’t ruled out Brunton simply choosing to leave town, after her botched burglary at the library and after Hywel refused to take her back.” He thought for a moment. “Can we follow the money?”

“I’m on that, sir,” one of the junior officers volunteered. “We don’t have much. Brunton withdrew £500 from her account on Thursday over her lunch hour, then returned to work. No further activity on any of her cards after that point. Her wallet and handbag were found in her cottage on Friday afternoon.”

Constable Frye jumped in. “£500 is the bank’s maximum daily cash withdrawal. Her largest previous withdrawal this year was £80, so it’s fair to say she was planning or expecting something unusual.”

“Have we interviewed the Cambridge professor she was seeing?” Constable Lloyd asked. “The library warden mentioned him as a possible lead—someone Brunton may have contacted about her plans.”

“I questioned Cecil Wrottesley yesterday by video conference from Paris,” Constable Eaton said. She pulled off her spectacles to rub at one eye. “It was a dead end.” Constable Lloyd leaned back, discouraged, as she described the interview. The don had been at the Bibliothèque Nationale de France for three weeks; his last conversation with Brunton was on May 18. “His story checks out,” she concluded. “He’s been seen in the reading room daily, Monday through Saturday, since May 27.”

“Passport activity?” Constable Frye queried.

“None since his trip through the Chunnel on May 26.” She settled her glasses back in place. “Wrottesley was shocked to hear about Brunton’s disappearance. He had no information about her plans, family, other friends—frankly, he doesn’t seem to know her very well.”

“No close associates at the library, either,” Constable Frye mused. “She worked with some of them for a decade, but not one of her colleagues claimed to be a good friend.”

The second young officer had been silently wringing his hands, but now he piped up, his voice a bit awestruck. “Constable Frye, sir? I was collecting physical evidence last night in Hywel’s bedroom. I didn’t find much, but Sherlock Holmes seemed certain that something important happened there.” Constable Lloyd felt the pendulum swing back to Hywel.

Constable Frye sighed. “Yes, officer, I was there. I enjoyed seeing Holmes in action, too, but in the bright light of day, we don’t have much to be getting on with—at least not yet. We have some wool fibers from Hywel’s closet and evidence of a heavy object set on his bed. But it’s not clear what any of that has to do with Brunton.”

Constable Easton observed, “The evidence could track with Blevins’s statement about Hywel’s activity in his bedroom Thursday night.”

“I suppose it’s our strongest theory at the moment.” Frye looked around the table with a frown. “Sherlock Holmes may be the best thing we have going for us right now, so I trust this force will do a better job of cooperating with him, starting immediately. He and his partner, Dr. Watson, were turned away yesterday when they came to interview Hywel.” His eyes stopped on Constable Lloyd for a moment. “After the search last night, Holmes considers Hywel a person of interest in Brunton’s disappearance. Let’s make sure he gets that interview if he returns this morning. In the meantime, I want our full attention on this case.”

Constable Frye turned to the Welsh liaison. “Lloyd. You stay here. Talk with Hywel about his whereabouts on Thursday night and Friday morning—see if you can pin him down. Unless we come up with something more concrete, we’ll have to let him go at noon. Do you consider him a flight risk?”

“I don’t think so, sir.” He added, “I’d be surprised if he’s ever been further than 500 kilometers from Hawarden.”

“All right,” Frye said. “If necessary, we can always pick him up again. Prepare the paperwork, but give Holmes time to get over here before you release him.”

“Eaton. I want you over at the Gladstone estate. Find out if the family or grounds crew saw Hywel talking with Brunton on Wednesday or at any other time last week. Also talk again with the library staff—maybe someone noticed Hywel over there earlier in the week, before his stunt at the monument yesterday. I know it’s Sunday, but do what you can.” She nodded and began to gather her notes.

“You two.” The young officers were listening eagerly. “Find out if Brunton left town on Thursday afternoon or evening. Check every means of public transportation out of Hawarden, Buckley, and Chester—trains, buses, cab companies. She had enough cash to get pretty far, but no ID on her, so I think we can rule out the airlines or a car hire.” He flicked a small photo, taken at the library’s holiday party, in their direction. “She’s the blonde.”

The officers fanned out quickly. New leads: that’s what they needed to crack this case, Constable Lloyd thought. It would be all too easy to destroy Rhobert Hywel’s good name—and soil all the Hywels by association—just for a lack of other ideas. Glumly, he trudged through the quiet station: he would start with the paperwork. 

***

_Gladstone estate. Thursday night._

Rhobert’s fingers lingered, finding even after so many centuries deep scratches in the stone floor where the heavy altar once stood. His own deeds would leave a similar indelible mark. On his knees in this holy spot, he was preparing to do what not one of his ancestors, nor any of his living kin, would ever do. It damned him— _she_ damned him—to be forever alone, cast out and forsaken.

“Rhobert!” Sophia was calling to him, her voice avid with an appetite that defiled this place. “Rhobert—the stones, just there.” She pointed at two stones centered inside the scratches defining the altar. “They’re loose!”

Sophia joined him in the pit. The mid-sized flagstones were barely offset from the rest of the floor’s surface, removed and replaced who knows how many lifetimes before. Sophia’s dexterous hands brushed the stones’ edges until she found a corner slightly protruding. “Here,” she said. “We can lift this one here.” She slanted commanding eyes at him, and he saw that he would do it. He would do it.

Rhobert leaned over to feel the misaligned joint: it would give. He stood, patting around the edge of the hole for his shovel. With gentle finesse, the groundsman slipped the shovel into the seam, then pried up the stone. It was thick—perhaps ten centimeters—and very heavy, but together they could manage it. Rhobert deftly caught the edge and, setting aside his shovel, transferred both hands to the stone. With Sophia on the other end, they hefted it to one side.

Sophia’s face dropped. Beneath was only more dark Welsh soil. “I know this is the right spot,” she muttered. “I’m sure of it. We’ll lift the other stone and dig.”

Soon Rhobert resumed digging, more carefully this time. It took only a few shovelfuls before he hit something solid. Sophia held the dimming LED light as he cleared the soil from a much larger flagstone, this one with a rusted iron ring. “It’s a door,” she whispered.

The flagstone slab was twice the size of the floor stones, massive and unwieldy. Rhobert tugged on the ring, but the grip was too small for his broad hands. The shovel creaked and started to bend when he pried at one corner. Sophia paced across the chapel floor, looking down at Rhobert. Inhaling sharply, she froze. “Use your belt!” she directed. “Loop your belt through the ring and pull.”

Before she finished speaking, Rhobert was unfastening his webbing belt. Sophia dropped to her belly to hold the small light closer to the door, focused as a sniper with a valuable target in the crosshairs. Rhobert lashed the webbing through the rusty ring, wrapped the remaining length around his palm, and gave a powerful yank. The flagstone budged a few centimeters before it fell back into place.

“Can you lift it higher?” Sophia pressed.

Rhobert released the belt and flexed his hand. “Yes,” he said, “if I use both hands and put my weight behind it. I’ll pull from one side. We’ll need a couple of chocks to prop up the other edge.” They both climbed from the hole into the lantern’s eerie half-light. Dark clouds were roiling above, slashing across the starry sky. In generations past, villagers built pasture walls of stones tumbled from the keep, but now many of the worn stones, the size of large cannonballs, rested at the base of the ruined tower. Rhobert lifted one into Sophia’s arms and took a second himself.

Back in the hole, Sophia positioned the stones along the edge of the slab and crouched by the first corner, ready to roll the rounded chock under as the flagstone lifted. Rhobert stood in the shadows on the other side. Finally he bent and lashed the belt around both hands. He dropped into a deep crouch, sat back, and pulled steadily from his strong legs. Sophia’s side of the slab rose. “I’ve got it!” she called, jubilant. One corner was wedged up.

Sophia held out the LED and peered into the gloom beneath the slab. “I can’t see anything,” she complained. “Finish it,” Rhobert answered, and crouched again. At the other corner, Sophia nodded, and Rhobert leaned with all his weight, then gave an extra push with his thighs.

“All right, it’s in,” she announced. Rhobert joined her and nudged the chocks more solidly into place. The door was barely ajar, lifted only thirty or thirty-five centimeters. “The light is too weak,” Sophia said from her knees, her arm stretching under the slanted stone. “I can’t see inside.”

“We can swap in larger chocks,” Rhobert began, but Sophia interrupted. “No. We’ve been here too long. I’m going in.” Their eyes met for a moment, and Sophia drew in a deep breath. Then she dropped her feet into the narrow space, twisted onto her belly, and slid into the pitch-black vault.


	7. Ddraig Goch

_Gladstone estate. Thursday night._

“I’m going in.” Sophia’s voice resounded in the musty dark as she dropped into the stone-lined vault.

Clinging to the rough wall, she finally touched bottom. The tiny light she held barely penetrated the gloom. When she glanced up beneath the raised edge of the slab, she saw Rhobert’s boots between the chocks. “What’s down there, Sophia?” he called, his voice muffled and distant. Not bothering to reply, she fell to her knees on the hewn stone floor.

Only centimeters in front of her, she found it: a beautifully wrought coffer of dark wood. Overwhelmed, she sat back on her heels for a moment, then jolting into action, waved the weak glow of the LED in sweeping strokes above the carved chest. Magnificent.

Words began to brim over, spontaneous and awestruck: “My God, Rhobert, there’s a wooden chest here. It must be seventeenth-century—so old, but it’s perfect, perfect!” She paused as she examined the clasp. “The latch, I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s some kind of serpent. Maybe a dragon.”

Outside the crypt, Rhobert stiffened. _“_ _Y Ddraig Goch,_ ” he breathed.[1]

***

_Glynne estate. 1655._

The rasp of shovels carried from the sacrarium, where six sturdy Welshmen were breaking ground under the June sun. John Glynne stood with his man in the shade of the stately Welsh oak and looked across the courtyard at the hand-picked laborers _._

“Trusty men they seem, Rhydderch. Your weeks in Penarlâg were well spent, I warrant.” Madoc Rhydderch was a most faithful steward, of an old Welsh line loyal to the Glynnes for generations. He could scarcely be spared from the Caernarfon estate, which he managed independently during Parliament’s long sessions.

“I believe so, my lord.” Satisfaction marked Rhydderch’s tanned, honest face. “I passed many hours at the village church and market. And in the public house.” Their eyes caught and both chuckled, but the steward knew his business: he had learned the village’s heartbeat over mead and brown ale. Rhydderch continued, “These men are native Cymry, sworn and true, with no ties to the English of blood or dependency.” He paused, his fingers worrying at the brim of his tall hat.

“Rhydderch. Speak your mind, man. Have we cause to worry?”

“My lord, I think not. The people exult over their new Welsh lord. But I heard certain rumors.” The steward swallowed and whispered the words. “Rumors of the trust. Bare innuendo withal—and yet deemed a great credit to the Glynnes.” As they walked together across the courtyard to inspect the hour’s work, Rhydderch added, “I told the men you would fain have a root cellar on this hallowed spot, far from any dwelling. They asked no questions.”

Behind the tumbled keep, sledgehammers rang out, while two laborers trundled forward with a barrow of split stones. The excavation was now well advanced. Flagstones from the chapel floor flanked the large hole, and soil flew as one man dug steadily. A second worker, a handsome lad with curly hair to his shoulders, swiftly shoveled the dirt back from the edge. When they approached, he straightened, and intelligent brown eyes met theirs. He bowed slightly, following the courteous form.

Rhydderch smiled. “Will you join him below, Hywel?”

“Surely, sir. My lord.” His Welsh words had the homely lilt—uncommon these days—of a tongue seldom buffeted by English’s hard rhythms. Bending his head before the absent altar, the youth paused to cross himself before he vanished into the shoulder-deep hole.

_Gladstone’s Library. Sunday morning._

The reading room lacked several of 221B’s key amenities: Tea. Chocolate and orange Hobnobs. A sofa. Pushpins and Sellotape. Battered walls to absorb abuse from Sherlock-at-work or Sherlock-in-a-sulk. Right now, Sherlock was working, John thought. Maybe. The situation seemed set to degenerate into a tournament-level sulk.

John looked at Sherlock sprawled belly-down on the woodblock floor by Bloodworth’s reserved desk, his jacket long since discarded and his burgundy shirt frosted with dust. After a morning spent studying dozens of engravings and photographs of Old Hawarden Castle, the debris cascaded over Bloodworth’s desk and the neighboring one, as well, and extended in a target-shaped swirl across the floor. Sherlock’s head was the bull’s-eye.

John heaved a deep sigh and attempted a distraction. “Sherlock,” he said, “let’s take a break. We need to get over to the police station soon anyway to interview Rhobert Hywel.”

“No,” Sherlock curtly refused. Then he flopped to his back on the hard floor and buried his fingers in his jumbled curls. John watched, aghast, as he jerked his cranium up by the hair—then released it. Plonk. Plonk. Thank God the library was empty on Sunday mornings. Plonk.

“Knock it off, Sherlock,” John ordered, his toes poised to cushion the detective’s mistreated skull. The doctor stood frowning and tapping his free foot as he reviewed what they knew.

The Gladstone ritual told the way to some treasure—that much was clear. It was hidden on the estate, Sherlock thought, and Sophia Brunton had worked out a map before she went missing. Niall’s breakfast lecture suggested the treasure was somehow tied to the church, but no sense in waffling on about that.

Sherlock was twitching with frustration now; it looked like a myoclonic seizure, John noted idly. He returned to his inventory. The month to follow the ritual was “the fifth from the first”: five months after January, or June. That’s why Brunton acted now, Sherlock said—that was bloody brilliant. The bit about the sun meant the time of day mattered: they’d measure the shadow when the sun fell low over the keep. So far, so good.

The oak was a stickier wicket. A Welsh oak once grew on the estate—the flurry of papers around the detective’s disordered head showed it—but their visit to the estate proved it was gone. They needed the location and height of the oak, sod it all. Sod it all to bleeding hell.

A tune drifting up the spiral staircase shattered his rant. “Tu solus Dominus,” Bloodworth’s voice quavered—it was lovely and a bit familiar, although John couldn’t name it. _“Quoniam tu solus sanctus,_ Bach’s Mass in B Minor.” Sherlock did not raise his head. “Pedestrian,” he snapped.

The bookman snorted as he took in the scene on the balcony. “Stuck, are you, Holmes?” Without further comment, he bent and began to gather the illustrations.

Sherlock sat up abruptly with a grimace. “ _Quercus petraea,_ Bloodworth. We need data on the estate’s Welsh oak. Surely you must know some botanist—”

The stack of papers slipped from Bloodworth’s fingers and scattered around his feet as he fumbled in his briefcase for his laptop. “Yes! Davidson at Bangor Uni. How can I have been so thick?” His fingers flew over the keyboard. “I visited Bangor years ago on a buying trip. The botanists there have been running a longitudinal study of Welsh oaks for decades—since the early 1960s, I think. They’ve tracked several hundred trees all across Wales.” He pulled up a spreadsheet as Sherlock and John crowded close. “Let’s see if there are any in Hawarden.”

Bloodworth scrolled through the data, arranged by region and village in English or Welsh. “Here’s Hawarden. Three trees,” he muttered. “One is west of town—two nearby.” He enlarged the results. “Right. This one is in Bilberry Wood, on the edge of the estate.” Leaning forward, he jabbed at the screen. “There. That’s our tree.”

“The Glynne Oak,” Sherlock read. “Felled in May 1989 due to storm damage.” His eyes flicked rapidly across the column of data as he pulled on his jacket and felt for his phone. “Estimated age, 900 years. Height and girth measurements here.” He pointed, then quickly pulled up the page on his mobile while a smile kindled across his angular face. John had to glance away.

“They list geographic coordinates—latitude and longitude.” He looked at John for an instant, his eyes blazing turquoise under a halo of chaotic curls, before he spun. “The estate!” Sherlock was already galloping down the narrow stairs, his rich baritone raised in a transcendent phrase of pedestrian song. John and Bloodworth heard him pause. “Coming, John?”

“Right behind you,” he called.

“In gloria Dei Patris” echoed through the empty reading room as John and Bloodworth chased after the detective. “Watson, wait!” Bloodworth panted, and he ducked his head into a narrow cupboard in the vestibule. John was edging outside when a silver object arched through the air. He caught it by reflex.

“I’ll follow, my boy. Go!”

Bloodworth stood outlined in the library’s arched door, waving them on. Throwing a smile over his shoulder, John clutched the tape measure and sprinted into the morning sun.

***

_North Wales Police station. Sunday morning._

Constable Lloyd sat facing the holding cell’s bunk, his notebook open in his lap. Rhobert Hywel was a hiker, it seemed. “I finished work by 4:00 on Thursday,” Rhobert was explaining, the words unwinding smoothly in Welsh. “It was a fine afternoon, so I decided to go for a walk.”

“Did you take the path that loops the estate,” the constable prompted, “or some other route?”

Rhobert picked at his thumbnail with evident interest. “The perimeter trail is a bit tame for me. Though it’s popular—I keep it in good condition for the tourists.” He glanced up to deliver a faint smile. “No, I set out to hike the Bilberry Wood loop starting from Hawarden Woods. It usually takes me two hours.”

“So you circled back—when? 6:00 or so?”

“Well, no,” the groundsman admitted. “It was late when I finally got back to the old castle. The first half of the hike was okay, but I was falling ill by the time I came to the Peckforton Hills overlook. Dizzy and all—came on fast. So I rested in the big sycamore grove. You know the one, Gareth?” The constable nodded as he took notes. “I had my sandwich, drank some water, and nodded off.”

The Welsh liaison officer sighed. It was hardly an airtight alibi. “Did you pass anyone on the trail? Talk with anybody, even by phone?”

“I passed a few sightseers in Hawarden Woods,” Rhobert replied, “but after that, I didn’t see or talk with anyone. When I woke up, I felt like utter shite, and it was dark. I must have slept three or four hours out there. I couldn’t . . . it was black all around.” His Adam’s apple bobbed violently as he swallowed. “I made my way back with my pocket torch, but it took a while. It was starting to rain by the end.”

“When did you get to your flat?”

“Christ, I wasn’t myself by then—I was running a fever, just knackered.” Rhobert rubbed at his eyes as he mulled over the question. “I don’t remember checking the time, but it was after 11:00, I suppose, maybe even midnight. My flatmate was already in bed when I got there.”

Constable Lloyd jotted down the times and considered. “All right. What did you do next?”

“Well, I found out I had spoiled my chances for a good night’s sleep,” Rhobert cracked, shifting on the narrow bunk where he sat. “I tossed and turned in bed, then tried the sofa in the lounge. My legs were so stiff and sore that night.” His hands gripped both thighs. “I finally gave up and walked back to the estate—I figured I could get an early start. Bit of a downpour by then, so I reorganized the potting supplies in one of the outbuildings.”

“We have Reginald Gladstone on record saying you spoke by Old Hawarden Castle at 6:00 a.m. Friday.” Constable Lloyd watched the younger man’s reaction.

“That’s right,” Rhobert confirmed easily. “I took a break on the earthworks near the chapel. I got soaked through before the rain let up—made myself even sicker. Stupid, really. My mum would have my hide if she knew what I did there.” He gave a rusty chuckle and glanced at the constable’s notebook. “Then Mr. Gladstone sent me home sick.”

Constable Lloyd flipped back through his notes. “I see we have a pocket torch and compass among your personal effects. Do you normally carry a compass?”

Rhobert nodded and volunteered, “In my pocket, or clipped to my belt.” Two pairs of eyes dropped to his empty belt loops. “Say, Gareth.” Rhobert’s voice glowed with sudden bonhomie. “Do I have you to thank for my breakfast? That laverbread was something.” He pulled in a breath and added, “I’ve always wondered why tourists come to Gwynedd, then try to order a full English. Well, it leaves more of the choice bits for us.”

Both men were chuckling as Constable Lloyd stood. “You’re our guest here for the rest of the morning, I’m afraid, Rhobert. But unless the investigation turns up new evidence before noon, you’ll be free to go.”

Relief flickered across Rhobert’s face. “Ah, that’s good, that. My nephews have a football match this afternoon—I told them I’d be there, and I hate to disappoint them. They’re fine lads.”

The Welsh liaison looked at this Hywel, so like his uncle Ceith and doubtless an idol to his young nephews. He might be the worse for wear right now, Lloyd decided, but he’d pull through. “You may be questioned once more, by Sherlock Holmes,” he said as they parted by the cell door. “The library’s brought him in from London to assist with the investigation.” Rhobert gave no sign of knowing the detective’s name, but nodded. “An officer will be present, of course. You can request me, if you like—I should be here all morning.”

“I’ll do that.” Rhobert reached out to shake his hand warmly. “Thank you, Gareth. For everything.”

***

_Gladstone estate. Thursday night._

“It’s incredibly ornate.” Sophia’s voice floated up to Rhobert. “Every inch of the chest is carved with . . . with fierce, fighting beasts.” There was a rapt pause. “The creatures have wings and scales—Christ, the _detail._ They’re breathing fire, I think.”

 _Y Ddraig Goch:_ he could scarcely believe it. Poets sang of it, how the white Saxon dragon attacked the fearsome red dragon of Wales. Rhobert recalled his beloved’s opal flesh, her fair hair sweeping across his face as she kissed him. Her pallor was bewitching, but foreign.

The two serpents fought a brutal battle across the Welsh heavens. The red dragon triumphed and the white dragon fell, gutted and trailing fire from the sky—the wizard Myrddin foretold it all. The red dragon sleeps under Dinas Emrys in Snowdonia, the frozen heart of Gwynedd, where he waits to this day to defend the Welsh people. A loyal Welshman, King Arthur carried as his battle standard _Y Ddraig Goch_. Their defender against foreign invasion. Their champion. Their flag.

The chest was Welsh, there could be no doubt.

Could English treasure be hidden in such a chest? Maybe the Stanleys failed to understand the insult, the unshakeable defiance _Y Ddraig Goch_ meant. Or perhaps they stole the Welsh masterwork. After all, Englishmen appropriated Myrddin—Merlin, they say—and even King Arthur. The English always come for a time, take what they like, and lay waste to the rest. Rhobert’s eyes rose to the dark outline of the ruined keep, then dropped to the vault Sophia was plundering.

Her murmur roused the groundsman. “The latch is tricky, but I’ve got it open now,” she said. “The seal is quite tight.” After a long silence, her voice rang out again, vibrant and elated. “The inside of the chest is completely lined with hammered metal—maybe silver—it’s remarkable. And the treasure is here.” Rhobert dropped to his knees and peered into the yawning darkness. He saw nothing until her pale face swam into view. “It’s here, Rhobert. Are you ready? I’m going to hand it out to you.”

Rising up in Sophia’s white hands was a substantial rectangle folded in yellowed linen. Rhobert reached under the slab to accept the cloth-wrapped bundle. It felt like a box—heavy for its size, but not especially large—he decided as he grasped it. Turning, Rhobert gently laid the treasure on the chapel floor nearby.

His eyes narrowed as he returned his attention to the vault. He heard Sophia bouncing and scraping the chest across the stone floor. “What are you doing?” he called, his voice tight.

“The coffer,” she announced impatiently. “We’re going to take it. It will be worth a mint on the London market. Collectors love the Civil War, and a Welsh piece of this quality—well, the sky’s the limit.”

Rhobert paced between the unknown treasure in old linen and the open crypt. It was enough. She had taken enough. “No, Sophia,” he growled. “You have what you wanted. Leave the chest there. It’s time to come out.

“I’m not leaving it, Rhobert. It’s mine now. Ours.”

He blew out a heavy breath. “You’ll never get it out through this narrow opening. Forget it—let’s go.” He bent down. “Grab my hand, and I’ll pull you up.”

“No!” she cried. “It will fit with the lid dropped back, if you can just lift the edge of the slab a bit higher. Do it, Rhobert!”

Sophia was waiting below, her silence strident. Rhobert was considering the Stanleys and their glittering coins, jewels, and gold. The English lords and ladies who prayed in this chapel and the nameless Welshmen who built it. The treasure. Its breathtaking chest. He swore never to see it sold. _I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,_ he thought, raising his face into the gathering storm. _He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber._[2] In the sky over Hawarden, black clouds stirred and a blood-red dragon coiled to strike.

Rhobert turned to his task. Hooking his fingers under the flagstone, he bent into a powerful squat, then stood. Shaken free, the chock to his left smashed down into the vault. “It’s all right!” Sophia called. “The chest is fine. Can you lift any higher?” He could hear her scrabbling to hoist the heavy coffer. Rhobert closed his eyes and heaved up the slab. His right foot found the remaining chock, familiar as a football, and toppled it in.

It was easy, so easy, to release his cramped fingers and step back. As the slab thundered to a sudden rest, Rhobert whispered, _“_ _Ffarwel, fy Ceridwen, fy_ _Ddraig Gwyn,_ _fy anwylyd.”_[3]

In the sealed crypt, Sophia’s panic mounted to a shriek. The darkness snarled around her as the fading light she clung to flickered across the empty chest, guttered, and died.

________________________________________

[1] _Y Ddraig Goch_ (the Red Dragon)

[2] Psalm 121:1,3

[3] _Ffarwel, fy Ceridwen, fy_ _Ddraig Gwyn,_ _fy anwylyd._ (Farewell, my Ceridwen, my White Dragon, my beloved.)


	8. Triangulation

_Gladstone estate. Thursday night._

A reedy wail, muffled and distant, rose from the sealed crypt at Rhobert’s feet. One ripe raindrop shattered across the heavy flagstone door, punctuating a long, shivering silence. Then the wail echoed again—in two distinct syllables. Sophia was screaming his name.

Rhobert pulled in a shaky breath and blew it out. _Mae hi wedi mynd,_ he reminded himself—she’s gone. All that remained was to walk away. Closing his eyes, he turned his back on the excavation while he gathered himself: it was a simple landscaping job, nothing more.

His eyes snapped open. In front of him was the treasure, wrapped in old cloth. He didn’t want it, but it couldn’t stay here. The linen felt fragile under his fingers as he moved the heavy package to the protection of the chapel wall, where the lantern still cast a pale yellow glow. He picked the better of the two shovels and returned to the hole. The first heaping shovelful fell on the flagstone. The work was so familiar, it was hardly necessary to look. He kept his eyes fixed on the keep as the muted keening resumed, rising up as the dirt beat down.

Rhobert filled the hole and thought of his cherry copse. Aye, he never finished the pruning, did he? He bit down hard on his lip and blinked to clear his eyes. The ornamental cherries put on a grand show last spring—there were pinks and whites, and two trees with lilac double blooms that attracted as many sightseers as bees. Clouds rolled across the moon, chasing the first crack of thunder.

Rhobert smoothed the soil, then dragged and fitted in the stones from the chapel floor. Come fall, maybe he’d plant another pair of the ruffled lilac cherries. He sifted soil around the edges of the flagstones, then settled and packed them into place. It was a good job, he thought: they blended right in. He kept shoveling, faster now.

He’d like to be planting a tree. Here in the dark, in the howling, with the storm moving in. But what sense would there be in that? With the rasp of falling soil loud in his ears, he suddenly understood: every time he dug, every time he planted, he would be here again. Sophia would poison it all.

Rhobert leveled the surface, stamped it firm, then dug mechanically into the pile of gravel. All the while, his streaming eyes traced the keep’s shadowed contour. Gwynedd’s prince and his band of freedom fighters saw their hopes die here in 1282. And the brook through Hawarden Woods ran with blood, its crimson fingers reaching out to stain all they touched.

Five minutes later, it was done. With the shovels and lantern stowed away, Rhobert stood in the dark over the crypt. He heard nothing. When the rain fell, he cradled the linen-covered parcel against his chest and fled down the familiar path to the village.

***

_Gladstone estate. Sunday morning._

The detective stood waiting on the grassy field by Old Hawarden Castle when John finally jogged up to his side, panting. He was fiddling with his phone’s GPS, John noticed, but his eyes were on the keep’s jagged high point. Sherlock glanced down at him, as composed as if he had spent the last ten minutes sipping tea. “Our coordinates are 53.1808° north by 3.0198° west,” he said. “This is where the Glynne Oak once grew.”

“Right. I can see that now.” John crossed his arms as he took in the slight dip in the grass, then turned his attention across the lawn. “And well done, you. But the sun is too high, Sherlock. It’ll be half the day before it dips over the keep.” John was used to waiting; he cleared his throat and prepared to settle in, until he recalled another item on their agenda. “We should get over to Buckley to interview Hywel,” he proposed.

“Nonsense, John. We’ll follow the ritual now. It will be a doddle,” Sherlock assured him absently, as he made a fist and sighted up his outstretched arm toward the keep. “About 30 degrees, then. Just a moment.” His fingers flew across his mobile. “All we need is the angular height of the keep from our current position. It’s easy enough to estimate, but the inclinometer app will provide a bit more precision.”

Follow the ritual now? Of course he could. John shook his head indulgently: his astonishment felt rusty with disuse.

“Simple trigonometry, John. Surely they taught it at that school of yours,” Sherlock said with a sidelong smile. Coming from him, the gibe was practically affectionate—the cheeky git. Who deletes the heliocentric model, but remembers triangulation? Honestly. He was out of practice, to be sure, but if a little trig would give them a jump of several hours, John was all for it.

“Excellent. The angular height is 33 degrees.” Sherlock was holding the phone out at arm’s length, aligning it with the top of the keep. “Naturally the oak’s shadow would run in the same direction as the keep’s.” Sherlock turned his back to the keep and pointed. “That way.”

“Sophia Brunton was here on Thursday evening.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at some unseen impediment. John had seen the balky look more than once: it was a mid-case classic. “I believe she was accompanied by Hywel. Judging from the evidence in his flat, they found something—and she has not been seen since.”

A question nagged at John. “Sherlock, how did Brunton find the Glynne Oak? She didn’t even have her phone. Tilbury said it was in her cottage.”

Sherlock shifted closer to him, visibly impressed. “Correct. She might have located it in advance using the Bangor Uni coordinates.” He paused, then waved away the uncertainty like a pesky fly. “Whatever the source of her information, if she was here at the proper time and had the location and height of the tree—38 meters, according to the study—she merely measured the shadow of an object of known height and did a bit of arithmetic to determine the oak shadow’s length.”

The sun overhead turned Sherlock’s eyes the color of spring’s first leaves. “There’s an alternative solution, John.” John waited for it. He had waited two years for it.

“We know the height of the oak,” Sherlock explained. “Its height divided by the tangent of the inclination to the keep equals the length of the tree’s shadow.” John laboriously reviewed the equation, while the detective looked on, amused. He walked through it again. “Thirty-eight meters divided by the tangent of 33 degrees is 57 meters. The Glynne Oak’s shadow was 57 meters long.” John pulled out his tape measure.

Soon they were standing at a second point, not far from the earthworks that circled the castle. John reeled in the tape, holding the spot with his toe. “I’d like to leave a marker, in case we need to backtrack,” he said. He fumbled through his pockets and turned up an uncapped biro, but when he pushed it into the grass, it tipped drunkenly to one side. Sherlock immediately crouched to examine the pen.

“There was a stake here,” he said intently, poking his finger into a depression in the soil, “removed before the rain on Friday. We’re on Brunton’s trail.”

 _“North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under,”_ Sherlock recited. With the phone serving as a compass, they began stepping. Shoulder to shoulder they strode to the north, ten long steps with each foot, for a total of twenty steps. Five steps, right and left, to the east. Two and two to the south. And the final two steps, momentous, to the west.

They both knew the place. The castle’s interior wall, with its towering arches, rose nearby. Niall had climbed into the center window just last night to spin John a tale of soldiers, priests, and long-ago invasions.

“It’s the sacrarium,” Sherlock said.

John nodded. “Niall told me”—he watched Sherlock’s face carefully—“that the altar was right here.”

“We’ve found it,” Sherlock breathed, then his voice firmed with determination. “It has to be here. _‘And so under’_ _—w_ e need to dig, John.”

“Not so hasty, Holmes!” Bloodworth was trotting across the bulwark and soon joined them. “So this is the spot, is it? Well, well, I’m quite certain you’re right. But you’ll not lift a finger—nor a shovel. You mustn’t!” He turned from Sherlock to John to reinforce the order. “Not until I speak to Tilbury and Mr. Gladstone about your extraordinary search and call in the police.”

***

Luck was with him. A panda car was cruising past when Bloodworth stepped into the broad circular drive that led to New Hawarden Castle, the Gladstone family home. He flagged it down, and soon he was riding beside Mary Eaton as she radioed Constable Frye. Bloodworth pulled out his mobile to call Stephen Tilbury.

After a conversation with the Gladstones’ housekeeper, Mrs. Forbes, they quickly collected the group. Tilbury was certain the effort was a wild-goose chase, but he accepted a ride from the cathedral with a pair of officers en route from Chester’s train station. Reginald Gladstone and his brother Bertie were enjoying brunch at the Glynne Arms. The elder Gladstone was gobsmacked to learn the family’s ancestral ritual had a hidden meaning, and doubly astonished that Sherlock Holmes had already deciphered it. Constable Frye was stopping to pick up the brothers. Bloodworth hoped Reg Gladstone would quit sputtering before he met Holmes.

The estate had a skeleton staff at weekends, with no groundskeepers or gardeners on Sunday, but Mrs. Forbes managed to turn up a couple of shovels. As Bloodworth walked back to the car with Constable Eaton, he sent a quick text.

 

Bernhard Bloodworth. 9 June 2013. 11:31 a.m.

**JW, SH: Back shortly. Police on the way. BB**

***

“Lloyd,” Constable Frye barked. His voice crackled through the headset. “I need you in Hawarden immediately. Eaton has something on the Brunton case. Gladstone estate—the old castle. Double time!”

At the North Wales Police station, Gareth Lloyd was on his feet before Frye hung up, hastily gathering the papers on his desk into a file folder. He took off at a run, slowing at the front desk to hand the custody sergeant the paperwork for Rhobert Hywel’s release.

***

Absurd. Tedious and irrefutably asinine to mark time waiting for a crowd of mouth-breathing dimwits and dullards, while perhaps less than a meter below the surface—

“You’ll ruin another pair of bespoke oxfords at that rate.” The doctor raised a significant eyebrow at Sherlock’s small-scale excavation, accomplished primarily with the outsole and welt of his Foster and Son brogue.

“I wore trainers for three weeks in Bulgaria,” Sherlock griped. “They were hateful.” Frowning his antipathy toward the substandard footwear, he grudgingly redistributed the mound of gravel and loose soil and patted it down with the leather sole of one dusty black shoe. He bounced for a moment on both well-shod toes. Then he began to pace, his fingers knotted into rude wads of his misbegotten curls.

“Nope. No, this won’t do.” Leaning against the chapel wall, John watched the proceedings with plain concern. “Come over here, Sherlock. Yes, come here.” When his perambulation brought him in range, Sherlock saw it was a small matter for John to corral and arrange him against the wall. “How did you get to be such a great giraffe? Slide down. There you are.” They stood facing each other eye to eye.

John broke the standoff. “Do you want to see what’s hidden here?”

Ludicrous, pointless query. His shoulders gave a deep involuntary twitch. He was thirsty. He swallowed hard and took a shaky breath. He wouldn’t favor the tiny interrogator before him with a reply, he scarcely—

“Sherlock.” John’s warm voice, perfectly calm, interrupted the static arcing over the mind palace. “I’m going to help you settle down. Look at me.” With dignity and profound reluctance befitting the petty command, Sherlock slowly turned his face to John.

“Excellent. Hi.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. John straightened and settled into parade rest. He looked—larger. “None of that,” he said a bit more firmly. “You haven’t told me much about the search at Hywel’s flat. Did you get on with Constable Frye?” Sherlock snorted. “Hmm.” John raised his chin and looked at him. “How about the other officers? Were you polite, friendly? Kept out of the way, at least?”

Sherlock remembered the pustulated dunce with the tweezers. “There was one young officer . . .” John kept looking, unblinking. “I may have suggested he was overlooking some evidence,” Sherlock admitted.

“I see.” It was clear that John did see. “Let’s not forget the liaison officer and custody sergeant at the station yesterday. You didn’t exactly show your best side when they told us to come back later for the interview.” He continued doggedly. “And Mr. Gladstone—I haven’t had the honor yet. Have you?” Sherlock shook his head, suddenly feeling warm.

“So let me summarize where we are.” John brought his hands forward to tick off the points. “No allies on the police force. The local dignitary and property owner? Unknown and cozy with Tilbury, who thinks the ritual is a red herring. Bloodworth is out there trying to make nice for us, but if you can’t control yourself when they all arrive, we stand a good chance of finding ourselves on the wrong side of the police tape.” He let that sink in before delivering the pitiless final blow: “They might even decide not to bother digging, if Mr. Gladstone would rather leave this _historic site_ undisturbed.”

The detective gasped and blew out a harsh, uneven breath. He tried to twist away, but John merely stepped closer, between Sherlock’s outstretched legs, and rested a small, firm hand on each shoulder. “Steady on, Sherlock. It’s important, that’s all, but you’ll be fine.” His smile was takeaway Chinese, breakfast tea, and woolen jumpers. “We’re going to play a game now—well, a challenge more than a game.”

A challenge. That had potential. “Are there rules?” Sherlock sniffed, his voice prudently neutral.

“Sure.” John chuckled. “Wouldn’t be much of a challenge without rules. But they’re easy: your hands stay here.” His fingers skimmed over Sherlock’s biceps, down to his wrists, then pressed both of his palms flat against the stone wall. “You keep your eyes closed.” Sherlock looked at him quizzically, then shut his eyes. “Good. And no talking. Focus on your breathing instead.”

Sherlock could feel John watching. Finally he prompted, “Yes? Nod if you’re willing.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but gave a short nod. John was stepping back; Sherlock heard a small shuffle. “If you want to stop, just raise your hands, open your eyes, or say the word.” John’s voice slid deeper; he seemed to be next to Sherlock on the wall now. “By the same token, of course, I’ll stop what I’m doing if you touch me, look at me, or talk.”

Oh. Sherlock’s mind danced over the possibilities. _Oh._

Sherlock felt a warm breath shiver across his ear. He turned toward it, and it vanished. A weighty pause hung over him, while every inch of his skin searched through the silence for John. Light fingers smoothed his mussed hair, then pulled back. Minutes might have passed while Sherlock breathed, in and out. When he felt a whisper of moist warmth on the other ear, he did not turn.

“Two solutions, Sherlock.” It was a bare murmur. “That was amazing. Twice as good.” John’s lips were so close that they brushed the shell of Sherlock’s ear as he spoke. “God, I’ve missed being with you, being there to see you light up with the answer. Brilliant.” Sherlock melted against the wall, his balance suddenly wobbly. John’s perfect nose glided in a crescent along the soft skin behind his ear. When his eyes flickered open, just for a moment, the presence by his side was gone.

Sherlock drew and released deliberate breaths. The late morning sun glowed through his eyelids. He noticed a protruding stone behind his right shoulder and the chalky surface under his fingertips, but he did not listen for John. Why speculate? It was like trying to predict a fire devil’s trajectory as the turbulent gases whirl into a tower of flame. A single finger traced down his throat, a conflagration kicking up behind. “John,” Sherlock begged. The finger instantly withdrew.

Far away in the village, a police siren began to pulse. Sherlock rested against the wall and exhaled. Careful fingers slipped between his shirt and open jacket and stroked up to his waist. He was too thin for his old clothes; his trousers hung low. John’s compact hand fit the sharp camber, impossibly warm through the fine broadcloth. “Christ, look at you.” John’s voice was husky against Sherlock’s neck. The hand wandered to the curve of his back. “You did it, love. You remembered not to touch.”

He felt a shifting flutter of breath across his lips, and then a delicate kiss feathered the corner of his mouth. John was kissing him. _John._ Sherlock sighed and relaxed into his hands. John’s smooth jaw, still smelling of the morning’s soap, rubbed against his like a cat. He accepted the caress, pulling in calm, even breaths. Warm skin and angles, so familiar, settled against him. With his palms pressed hard against the craggy stones, Sherlock let his lips cling to every touch.

The siren below was louder now, with a second siren of a different timbre speeding in from the east. John gentled the kiss. When their phones sounded with Bloodworth’s text, Sherlock’s breathing was untroubled and deep.

John was well-pleased. If Sherlock kept it up, he risked an invitation to a hunting weekend in Hawarden. The detective was chewing the fat with Reg and Bertie Gladstone about Westminster Kennel Club leg conformation standards and the estate’s newest foxhound puppies. Leaving the gentry to it, John had introduced himself to Constable Frye and examined a questionable mole on Constable Eaton’s wrist. He was waiting with Bloodworth when a panda car returned, ending all conversation. The estate was temporarily closed to tourists.

The group pressed closer as Sherlock swiftly described Sophia Brunton’s appropriation of the Gladstone ritual. When the digging got under way, Sherlock slid between John and Bloodworth, eyeing with dainty distaste the two officers clearing the stony surface. Was it Andy Davis . . . and Evan something? John couldn’t quite recall. Sherlock leaned close to John’s ear and murmured, “The one with the pimples wouldn’t know evidence if it nipped at his fingers.” John stifled a snort—at least the skinny young man was quick with a shovel.

Maybe too quick. He and Sherlock exchanged a look. The digging was too easy by half: the earth had been recently turned. A mound grew along one edge of the oblong hole. The men hit stone together, their shovels clanking and scraping as they cleared off the soil.

With a graceful leap, Sherlock landed between the officers and crouched to sweep away the last of the dirt, running his fingers over the flagstone surface. Sherlock stood, his eyes flicking from John, to Reg Gladstone, to Constable Frye. “This is the old castle’s chapel floor,” he announced. “The altar was right here.” His toe traced a pattern of scratches marring the stone floor. “And these two stones are loose.”

By now, the group circled three sides of the hole: John and Bloodworth, Tilbury with the Gladstone brothers, and the police. Sherlock stepped to the side, and the officers made quick work of lifting out the flagstones. Only bare dirt showed beneath. A disappointed groan rose, but Sherlock cut off the sound with a simple gesture, as if conducting an orchestra. John couldn’t take his eyes off him. “We’ll continue to dig. If you please, gentlemen?”

Evan found it. He laid his shovel to the side and shook off the colorful strip. In an instant, Sherlock was beside him. Together they examined the green-and-white webbing, woven with striking red dragons. When the detective gave it a yank, the doubled strip pulled a thick iron ring from the dark soil. “Officer!” Sherlock barked. “Take this belt into evidence. Photographs first, please.”

Constable Eaton immediately stepped into the excavation and took several shots with a digital camera. As she worked, Reg Gladstone called out, his voice a bit shaky. “I’ve seen young Hywel—Rhobert—wearing that Welsh flag belt.”

For a moment, the silence around the hole was absolute. Then the Welsh liaison chimed in, his face ashen, “When I interviewed Hywel this morning, he mentioned a belt. He didn’t have one on when we arrested him.” He blinked, then added, “But he was carrying a compass—for hiking, he said.”

Sherlock seized the shovel and cleared away the soil hiding the belt. It looped through the rusty handle of a solid flagstone door.

Constable Frye took command. “Done with photos, Eaton?” She nodded. “The rest of you, get in there and help. Dr. Watson, do you think you can manage a corner?” John vaulted into the hole. “Mr. Holmes, before we remove the belt, would you like to do the honors?” Sherlock looked appraisingly at the stone and took his position at one long edge, across from John.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked, glancing around at the four men. They nodded, all poised to lift when the stone moved. Wrapping the belt around both hands, Sherlock crouched and gave a powerful push with his legs. John and Constable Lloyd quickly took the weight at their corners. A grimace crossed John’s face. He locked eyes with Lloyd, who knew the smell of a corpse in summer as well as he did. Still they lifted, and the other men added their muscle.

Open at their feet was a vault: as deep as a grave, but nearly square, and cobbled with split stones.

The ancient hiding place kept no secrets now. A woman lay dead inside, curled on the rough stone floor, with blonde hair splayed over her face. Her arms were extended, her hands livid with bruises, her fingertips bloodied and torn. Those damaged hands still clutched at an empty wooden chest. Near her feet and head were two large, rounded stones. A keychain rested against one wall.

“Stephen, is it Sophia Brunton?” Reg Gladstone’s face was turned away as he swallowed hard.

“Yes, I believe so, Reg,” Tilbury replied, his voice sad but steady.

“I simply don’t understand,” Bertie Gladstone complained. “She found the vault. How in heaven’s name did she end up buried in it?”

With every detail of the crypt committed to memory, Sherlock straightened and briskly pulled out his phone to check the time. “Five minutes past noon. I hardly think we have time for a full explanation.” He rattled on at full speed. “Suffice it to say that Brunton was the mastermind, but couldn’t open the vault alone. She enticed her former lover, Rhobert Hywel, to help her. He was the perfect choice—strong, a longtime employee of the estate.”

Sherlock stalked along the edge of the vault. “But he turned on her. He used his belt to lift the door, while she inserted those chocks.” He gestured down at the stones. “They held up two corners only, a narrow opening. She slipped in to find the chest. She handed its contents out to him—and he kicked in the stones and buried her alive.”

“He ran to his flat with the treasure.” He nodded at Constable Frye’s inquiring look. “Yes, the depression at the foot of his bed.” He glanced around. “Any further questions? If not, I suggest you call the station to see that Rhobert Hywel is still in custody.”

“Constable Frye, sir.” Gareth Lloyd was preparing to meet his maker, by the look of it. “I left his signed release papers at the front desk.” Before Constable Lloyd finished the sentence, Frye had the custody sergeant on the line. His face fell. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. After a few more words, he rang off.

“Released at 11:40. We need to find Hywel—now.”

In the deep shade of Hawarden Woods, a few May bluebells still lingered. The forest was lush and flourishing after the early summer rain, with grass and twining ivy overtaking last year’s fallen leaves. The air smelled ripe with moisture and rich humus. With his chest pressed against an ancient alder tree, Rhobert Hywel peered through the green solitude to Old Hawarden Castle, where onlookers rushed and shouted and police huddled over the open crypt.


	9. Fortune

_Gladstone estate. Sunday afternoon._

Blithe June sun filtered through the trees edging Hawarden Woods and shone over the ruins, pretty as a postcard. The tourist attraction was a crime scene now. Constable Lloyd closed the circuit of blue-and-white tape he was running outside the old castle’s bulwark and grimly turned back toward the spot where Rhobert Hywel allegedly buried his _cariad._

His interviews with the accused Welshman looped in the constable’s mind as he walked the police line. _Roedd yn edrych ymlaen at gynnu tân ar hen aelwyd_ —it was the only explanation that made any sense.[1] Rhobert loved Sophia, but she threw him over for an Englishman. Did she swear to leave him if Rhobert helped her? What else did she promise? A share of whatever they found in the vault? A life together? The murder was a crime of passion, Lloyd was sure of it. Rhobert said Sophia was _anghywir._[2] Did he catch her in a lie?

Just ahead at the hole, Constable Frye was calling out instructions; Mary Eaton must be back in Buckley by now. Fewer rubberneckers about, too—that was a small mercy. He could see Stephen Tilbury well down the trail to New Hawarden Castle, ushering the Gladstones away. Sherlock Holmes was already in the crypt, waiting none too patiently for Dr. Watson to join him.

Constable Frye looked up and immediately thrust out his ringing mobile. “Oi! Lloyd! Get over here and talk to Eaton.” She worked fast: Frye had dispatched her to track down the footage from the camera monitoring the police station’s main door.

“Lloyd here.”

“I’ve got the film, Gareth—it doesn’t tell us much,” Constable Eaton reported. “Hywel left the station at 11:41 and immediately hailed a cab. Parker’s Taxis—I talked to the driver. He took Hywel to the village and dropped him in front of the Glynne Arms at 11:48. The cabbie didn’t see where he headed.”

“Right.” Constable Lloyd thought for a moment—may as well confirm the description. “What’s he wearing?”

“Give me a minute,” she said. After a pause, she offered, “Looks like a light blue shirt, maybe chambray; jeans—no belt—and brown boots. The clothes are wrinkled and a bit muddy. He could use a shave.”

“Thanks. Where are you heading?” he asked.

“He’s got quite a lead at this point,” she mused, “but I’ll get started in the village. Can you send Andy and Evan out?”

Constable Frye immediately agreed, waving the two young officers off. Lloyd returned to the call. “Done. We’ll request backup from the Cheshire Police, as well. Eaton?” He caught her before she rang off. “Rhobert Hywel has a large family here in Hawarden—parents, a brother, aunts and uncles, cousins. I’d make them your next priority.” A last thought struck him: “He mentioned his nephews’ footie game this afternoon. School fields, probably.”

***

_Rhobert Hywel’s flat. Friday morning._

The deluge waited until he stepped into the dark lounge. Rain began to sluice in irregular cardiac rhythms against the windows as Rhobert carried his burden through to the bedroom. He held the riches of Hawarden’s discredited English nobles, Sophia said. He held the contents of a chest guarded by _Y Ddraig Goch._ No part of it made sense, but Rhobert was tired of thinking. It was time to see.

Drawing a steadying breath, he locked the door behind him and felt through the gloom for the light switch. The shaded lamp cast a narrow halo over the bed and wooden floor. Rhobert laid the swaddled bundle on the down coverlet at the foot of his bed. The linen sack was only slightly damp, but it felt fragile as he untangled the picot edging and slipped in his left hand. His fingers met a long curve of leather. Sliding his palm underneath, he found an intersection of wrought metal; he lifted, then skimmed off the worn fabric that hid the treasure.

It was a book—like none Rhobert had ever imagined.

The ancient volume was half a meter tall and nearly as wide. Rhobert freed his hand and stepped back, amazed. The metal he had gripped had its match on the book’s front: delicate golden fronds twined around dome-shaped rubies and emeralds to form a radiant cross. A lustrous baroque pearl as long as Rhobert’s thumb lit the cross’s center. The book’s cover—made of boards wrapped in fine calfskin, pale tan with age—showed in the quadrants. 

Sophia knew. Rhobert froze with despair before the sublime book as his beloved’s deceit unspooled. _She knew._ The hiding place made sense, she said. She wanted this book—this Bible, for surely it must be a Bible—from the beginning. And they found it resting on the altar. _We deceive ourselves,_ he murmured. _We deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us._[3] Had there been any truth, any fidelity, between them? _Anwylyd anffyddlon._[4]

This Bible was a treasure. That was true. Did it belong to the Stanleys?

The family were Anglican, of course; their scripture would be printed in English. Rhobert reached for the book. He slid its imposing weight to the right, and with his left hand supporting the bow of the spine, carefully opened to the center. The thick pages felt like animal hide. The binding was sturdy but supple, articulated like a snake’s backbone; it fell open easily and laid flat. The downpour outside still assaulted Rhobert’s ears, but his eyes were drowning in color.

Rich red, gold, and green spilled across the buff pages, eclipsing the stark integrity of the sable lettering. Rhobert bent nearer in the chamber’s dim light. Each hue, each prospect, unfolded into a miniature world. A cross rose out of a geometric carpet of flaming russet—but closer, closer still, the colors bled into thick autumn foliage. He traced the complicated woodland border, where bittersweet copper leaves twisted into a bushy tail and lithe body. Sharp brown eyes of the _llwynog,_ the fox. On the next page, an illuminated initial he couldn’t read—yet clean verdigris led him inside the nameless words to a northern beach, where a bass limned of palest green and charcoal leapt through October sun into churning lapis surf.

Rhobert moved slowly through the winding calligraphy, pages of black on ivory, pages favored with God’s creatures—swift deer, a serpent, even a crested peacock. He found four of the ornate crosses, four expansive visions introducing four spiraling initials. Four parts. Four books. The paintings riveted him, but after a time, he distinguished one word: _Deum._ In Welsh it was _Duw_ —God. He had sung the Latin hymn as a boy: _Te Deum, te Deum_ _laudamus._

The Gospels in Latin. This book was treasured long before the faithful feared the Stanleys or their King James Bible.

Dread bloomed in Rhobert’s throat as he finally reached the volume’s first pages, a bit whiter than the others. The last weathered page on the right brought the most elaborate icon yet. Dozens of vital, coiling animals, flowers, and vines wreathed the book’s only human figures. The central man held a book. Was he Christ, or perhaps an apostle? His calm eyes were as brown as Rhobert’s own; his hair curled in twisting knots at the feet of a brace of peacocks.

The facing page bore a single sentence in a tall, flowing hand. It was written in antiquated Welsh. Rhobert’s eyes stuttered over the half-familiar words. With some effort, he could read them, like “The Battle of Trees,” like any of the old Welsh poems he loved. He soon translated the colophon into modern Welsh: _Mae'r llyfr hwn yn ei wneud ym Bangor Fawr i anrhydeddu Duw a Deiniol Sant._ This book was made at Bangor Fawr to honor God and Saint Deiniol.

The first dry sob racked Rhobert’s shoulders as he sank to his knees and gently shut the Welsh holy book. Bangor Fawr, Deiniol’s own abbey. Pitiless Vikings slaughtered the doomed monks, the saint’s name dying on their bloody lips—everyone knew the tale.

He knelt, but Rhobert did not pray. He didn’t deserve to. He was an abject traitor, a thief. A murderer, soon enough. _Y Ddraig Goch_ ’s duty to the book was done; now the dragon guarded his _cariad_ _._ Rhobert wondered if Sophia knew how to pray. Still his eyes were dry. Rhobert looked down at the cover’s golden cross, crowned with a nimbus of pearl. He recognized it now. It was a _croes Geltaidd_ —a Celtic cross.

Rhobert backed away from the bed, wild with shame. How could he fulfill _Y Ddraig Goch_ ’s trust? How could he safeguard Cymru’s treasure? He was Judas. On his feet, he heard the moan from his own throat rise like a sour chant. He had one pure thing left to offer. He pulled his great-great-grandmother’s shawl from the closet shelf and nestled the gossamer lace over the precious book. Closing the bedroom door behind him, Rhobert fell on the sofa and wept.

***

_Clynnog Abbey. 1149._

Bangor’s bookbinder knew what he was about, Brother Elian could plainly see. He bent close to admire the tidy knots on the spine’s exhausted leather cords, stretched thin after centuries of wear. The white calfskin cover, still miraculously pure and soft, had loosened with the passing generations. When he touched the first thong, it fell to velvety dust. In the practical Cistercian way, Elian prayed with his hands; today his prayers would restore the White Book of Saint Deiniol.

His calloused fingers brushed across the aged vellum. It was said that the Abbey of Kells guarded another such book. Wondrous strange was the old scribes’ art—plaited with fantastical creatures and antique saints—yet the binder’s craft remained unchanged, as orderly as the sun’s path across God’s heaven.

The leather-covered boards waited on a chamois now, alongside two jeweled filigree crosses, masterworks of the abbey’s goldsmith. The gatherings stood in a tall stack, ready for the sewing frame. Four large sheets folded into eight pages, recto and verso, made up each slim section. Settling on the well-worn oaken stool, Elian counted out four score and nine gatherings, darkened with age—and one, fresh and clean, from Clynnog. It was a Welsh motto penned by Abbot Dewi himself. He slotted the new pages into the frame, fitting them against the taut cords stretched from top to bottom, and reached for his stoutest thread.

_Gladstone estate. Sunday afternoon._

“Apparent cause of death, asphyxia.” John kept his eyes on Sophia Brunton’s body, but pitched his voice to reach Constable Frye, who was taking notes at the crypt’s edge. “Rigor mortis entirely subsided, moderate decomposition,” he continued.

Sherlock crouched at his side, his eyes moving rapidly over the corpse. _You can look but mustn’t touch_ was a lesson lost on him, John reflected tolerantly, as Sherlock clasped the librarian’s outstretched fingers and lifted her arm a few centimeters. John followed the barely perceptible slant of the detective’s head to the darkened underside of Brunton’s forearm. Then Sherlock sank his thumb into the purplish flesh. “Right,” the doctor agreed. “The postmortem lividity pattern is fixed.” He called up to Frye, “She hasn’t been moved. Dead two to three days.”

He sat back, caught by the battered hand still resting in Sherlock’s nitrile glove. It sickened him to imagine what that hand revealed. He spoke slowly and distinctly for Constable Frye. “She was alive and conscious when the flagstone dropped. She fought to get out. See the bruising and abrasions on her arms?” Frye looked down and nodded. “She pounded on the door, probably tried to climb the walls.”

The constable flipped a page and continued scrawling; John waited for him to catch up. “Her hands are torn to shreds, and she’s missing the nail on her right index finger.” Sherlock extended the bloody finger for inspection. A kind of fierce squeak came from Bloodworth, and John watched the older man back away from the hole. “Sit down before you fall down, Bloodworth,” John ordered calmly. “Head between the knees. Constable Lloyd, help him, yeah?”

Sherlock watched John like a fast-moving chemical reaction. “How long would she have lived?” he probed intently.

The walls pressed too close, John thought, as he turned to consider the rough space. A bare shadow of Sophia Brunton’s terror shook him, but he replied steadily. “Once the vault was sealed, she had a fixed amount of air—not a lot. If she panicked, screamed, exerted herself, she would have used it up faster.” When he looked back at the body, Sherlock was laying down Brunton’s hand almost tenderly. “An hour, maybe,” John said. “Not much longer.”

 ***

Ten minutes later, only the body remained in the crypt, awaiting an ambulance from Deeside Hospital morgue. Constable Frye kept vigil by the hole as he put the final touches on the crime scene notes. Propped against the chapel wall, Bloodworth was pale, but on the mend, John decided. With focus that rivaled Sherlock’s, the bookman was scanning the collected evidence that Constable Lloyd had arranged in a neat impromptu grid on the stony ground.

John, Sherlock, and Lloyd squatted around the grid in front of Bloodworth. Sophia Brunton had been carrying next to nothing on Thursday night: a hand-drawn map on yellow paper and ten crisp £50 notes. In front of the body, they had found a ring of keys with a tiny torch. Sherlock reached for the keys in their resealable bag. Through the thin plastic, he flicked his thumb—once, twice, three times—against the LED’s button. Nothing happened.

“We’ll have to confirm these were Brunton’s keys,” Sherlock advised as he returned the evidence bag to its spot by the stone chocks. “No doubt the battery ran down as they followed the ritual. I suspect she flung the keychain at the wall when the light died—after she handed out the contents of that chest.”

John swallowed. “When she was left alone in the dark,” he clarified. Sherlock nodded.

Gareth Lloyd had been staring at the wooden coffer taking pride of place in the center of the grid. Earlier they saw the box’s interior, lined with tarnished metal hammered into a thin sheet, expertly fitted. Now the elaborate chest stood closed. Sherlock followed the sinuous line of a carved creature’s tail with one gloved finger. “An ingenious design,” he observed. “It’s beautiful, of course—but more importantly, airtight or nearly so. The Glynnes went to considerable trouble and expense to preserve their treasure.” He added, “The first Glynne lord was a member of Parliament; I imagine he brought the chest back from London.”

Constable Lloyd closed his eyes for a long moment. The off-handed remark nettled him—John could feel it. It was a valuable skill: in Afghanistan, sensing a mood as it soured could keep a soldier alive. The Welshman suddenly stood. “I thought you were supposed to be a ruddy genius,” he said, his voice low and deliberately even. He towered over the crouched men. “That’s no English chest—it’s as Welsh as I am.”

John tracked the constable’s eyes as he broke off his glare: oddly, he looked across the field to the ruined keep. Sherlock was bristling. John shook his head minutely, and Bloodworth reached out a hand to keep him down as John stood. “That may be important, Constable Lloyd,” he said, carefully stepping closer. “How can you tell?”

The constable huffed out a frustrated breath, then blinked at Frye concentrating on his notes and collected himself. “Dr. Watson, I hope you’ll pardon me,” he apologized, including Bloodworth with a glance. “I’m a bit touched by that chest—I’ve never seen its like.” His brown eyes caressed the box’s ornate braided figures. Finally he dropped down again and, venturing a sharp look at Sherlock, began to point out pairs of scaly creatures locked in battle.

“Here,” he said. “And here, and again here.” John was beside him now, while Bloodworth and Sherlock looked on. “There’s not a single repetition. Each scene is a different stage of the struggle. Look—here’s the victory.” A flaming figure was falling like a damaged biplane through twining clouds.

John struggled to understand. “Do you know what it shows?” he finally asked.

“Of course I do,” the Welshman sniffed. “Any schoolboy would. It’s _Y Ddraig Goch_ _,_ the Red Dragon of Wales.”

Sherlock’s head shot up. “The dragon on the Welsh flag?”

The constable nodded stiffly. “That’s one place you’ll find him,” he confirmed, “but the myth is older than King Arthur. It’s a tale we learn early, from the old poems and even picture books. The Red Dragon defends us when Wales is under siege.”

“There are two dragons,” John said slowly. “Who is the Welsh dragon fighting?”

“The pale invader from the East,” Constable Lloyd replied without hesitation. “England.”

_Hywel house. Sunday afternoon._

A flat stone under the rosemary plant still covered the key, as it had for as long as Rhobert could remember. He brushed the dirt off the small metal box, unlocked the kitchen door, and replaced the herb garden’s hidden key. His parents would be at the football match for at least another hour, maybe two—long enough. He slipped into the kitchen, savoring air drowsy with currants and citron. Mother had been baking his favorite tea bread, _bara brith._

Rhobert kicked off his boots at the door and padded in stocking feet to his parents’ bedroom. In the back of the wardrobe, he found a brown plaid shirt and a worn leather belt, too short for his father now. He wouldn’t miss them. Rhobert’s own jeans and boots were all right: it was enough of a change. It would buy him some time.

After a shower and shave, Rhobert walked through the bungalow, lingering in the doorway of each small room as the memories came—tumbling down the hall with his brother and cousins, his father chuckling and calling out in Welsh, his mother setting out the dough to rise. He finally dropped his towel and soiled shirt by the kitchen door. The fragrant _bara brith_ lured him: he cut a thick slice, speckled with candied fruit, and sat down behind the narrow kitchen desk.

It scarcely took a moment to write what he needed to say. Rhobert tucked the pen, a blank sheet of stationery, and an envelope into his chest pocket as he rose, popping the last morsel of bread into his mouth. He looked around the familiar kitchen and considered his next moves. The chambray shirt would go in the outside bin, the towel on the line with the others. He rinsed his plate and set it in the drainer. Under the platter of _bara brith,_ he left his note:

 

 _Mae’n ddrwg gennyf. Rwyf wrth fy modd i chi y ddau._ [5]

Rhobert

 

* * *

[1] _Roedd yn edrych ymlaen at gynnu tân ar hen aelwyd._ (Idiom: He was looking forward to lighting a fire on an old hearth [renewing an old love].)

[2] _anghywir_ (untrue)

[3] 1 John 1:8

[4] _Anwylyd anffyddlon._ (Unfaithful beloved.)

[5] _Mae’n ddrwg gennyf._ (I’m sorry.) [This is an apology that takes responsibility—literally, “the bad is mine.”] _Rwyf wrth fy modd i chi y ddau._ (I love you both.)


	10. Standing Cross

_Constable Frye’s car. Sunday afternoon._

“Are you daft as a brush?” Constable Frye growled into his mobile headset. “How am I supposed to know what goes on in the man’s mind? If I had his brains, I’d be Sherlock Holmes of London, not _your_ assistant chief constable in sodding Flintshire!”

Gareth Lloyd snorted. Andy and Evan’s hero worship went a step too far if they expected the visiting detective to dream up some shortcut. Tracking down Rhobert Hywel would require old-fashioned legwork. The junior officers had been dispatched to the train stations at Hawarden Bridge, Buckley, and Hope. On the English side of the border, the Cheshire Police were securing the Chester railway station. The local taxi companies were on the alert. Eaton had swept the village’s high street and was on her way to the high school playing fields. Hywel’s flat was dark, so Frye and Lloyd were moving on to the homes of several close relatives. Their net was tightening.

“He just said he needs to think, all right? He’s back at the library with Dr. Watson.” When a reply crackled through the headset, the constable went dangerously still. Lloyd braced for an explosion.

“We’ll ring Sherlock Holmes when we pick up Hywel, and not one bloody instant before.” His fist slammed down on the steering wheel. “And you’d better hope he’s out-thinking any of us—because at the moment, we’ve got a murderer on the loose, a smattering of circumstantial evidence, and one AWOL buried treasure. It’s a right embarrassment. Now get out there and do your job!” With a disgusted flick, Constable Frye disconnected the call and stomped on the gas.

***

_Gladstone Playing Fields._

Hawarden High School football was legendary. The school launched professional footballers the whole world admired—Andy Dorman, Michael Owen, Gary Speed—but Hawarden remembered and celebrated many more players, just as fine, who chose to stay close to home. Rhobert’s father, Rhys, was a center forward, toasted down to this day as a wily fox in the box. Rhobert was a midfielder. The old boys never really left these fields, returning to coach and cheer their children on the youth football club and school teams. Rhobert wanted that, once.

He crossed the street in front of the school and headed for the middle pitch, where the red jerseys of the Hawarden Rangers football club blazed in the afternoon sun. Ceith’s boys were playing today with the under-12s. He told Steffan and Tadd he’d be here—it was one promise he could keep. Rhobert slipped into a thin spot in the privet hedge dividing the pitches and checked the view. Aye, he could see the stands well enough, the field, the home bench. The leathery leaves needled his throat and temples. He saw dozens of familiar faces—family, neighbors, old teammates, school friends—but they wouldn’t glimpse him here. When the police came, no one he cared for would have to report him. Rhobert settled in to watch.

The game was nip and tuck, with the teams trading possession. The older lads were playing forward. Steffan broke into an easy lope; he was eleven and growing into his long legs. Rhobert bit back a cheer as his nephew threw his weight against the opposition attacker and neatly turned the ball. Tadd was only ten and small for his age—one of the _tylwyth teg,_ to look at him, but like the fairy folk, his delicacy hid raw power. Sprinting from the center midfield, he leapt a narrow gap to land at his brother’s elbow.

The two were a devastating strike team. They had penetrated almost to the box when a defender slid in and knocked the ball up. Tadd turned, and for a shimmering instant, Rhobert thought he would cartwheel back into a bicycle kick. Instead he trapped the ball with his thigh, and with slick grace, pivoted to the goal.  His low kick to the side sent the goalkeeper diving. It was in.

Steffan slung one arm around Tadd and lifted the other fist into the air as elated teammates mobbed them. Cheers swelled from the stands; Rhobert alone kept silent. He found his family on their feet, shouting the boys’ names. Pedr was there, stomping and whistling through his fingers. With one arm pumping, Ceith was laughing with his _cariad,_ Mai. Prancing on the bench, Mai’s dark curls flew as she madly flipped between the two sides of a hand-lettered sign: Tadd Hywel #7 / Steffan Hywel #11. Rhobert’s dad and mum leaned together to murmur and nod, then smiled down at the field.

As the referee pointed to the center circle and the players moved back into position, a police siren rose over the dying cheers. Rhobert took a last greedy look before he slipped from the privet. By the time the panda car stopped in front of the high school, he was past the adventure playground. The Gladstones gave this corner of their estate to the community before the war. Soon Rhobert would be safe on the Hawarden Woods trail.

***

_Gladstone’s Library._

Bent over and panting, John found yet another fault in the years without Sherlock—too little running. Entirely too little.

“Oi! John! Are you coming back in?” Henry called, as he jogged back toward the rolled newspaper that marked their impromptu football pitch’s center circle.

They were well into their second hour of two-on-one. Henry and Niall’s chummy football rivalry was at stake. During Niall’s time at the library, they had totted up the score from week to week, so John was playing as a floating second man. He tried to tell them he was useless, a rugby player run to seed, but there was no dodging—Henry assured him that in Hawarden, football was the only game. When in Rome, John thought, and arched up to stretch his shoulders.

“Water break, yeah?” he yelled toward the field, limping a bit in his borrowed trainers as he trudged over to the water bottles. He had ten more minutes in him, if that—anyway, it was time to check on Sherlock’s progress.

Sherlock did his best thinking barefoot. He was stretched full-length on the garden’s soft grass, with his hands loosely folded on his belly and his overloaded brain propped on a bed pillow—only 221B’s worn sofa was missing. His black oxfords waited alongside a stack of books. The man’s toes were practically prehensile. From his vantage point across the lawn, John could see that the sinewy digits were the sole bit of the detective in motion. Bloodworth sat by in a deck chair; he looked up from his book and cocked a friendly eyebrow.

No solution yet, then. John waved and took a long drink, then turned back to the footballers. Niall was laughing and dribbling, while Henry maneuvered to push him off the ball. “One more goal,” John groaned as he joined them, “then I’m for the shower.”

***

Bloodworth peered down at the recumbent sleuth. After a moment’s inspection, he gave a complacent hum. “You’re fitting out the mind palace with a football pitch—is that it, Holmes?”

Sherlock frowned and declined to open his eyes. “Ridiculous,” he grumbled—although truth be told, the idea held some appeal. Recent events would necessitate extensive renovations. Early last evening, he had summarily queued the mind palace’s dartboard—a memento of an ill-advised university pub night—for deletion, but now he was contemplating a Glynne Arms wing. It was never prudent to rush construction decisions.

“Come now, there’s no sense in posing like a piece of funerary art.” Bloodworth chuckled and stirred the grass by Sherlock’s side with his small feet. “You may fool the others, but I can see you watching.”

What in heaven’s name was he nattering about? “What are you after, Bloodworth?” Sherlock growled. His forbidding look was less effective with his eyes closed, but he tried it nonetheless. Through his eyelashes, he saw John charge Henry and cut the ball away.

Bloodworth was undeterred. “The barest gratification of my curiosity, Holmes,” he rattled on merrily. “Humor an old man in one matter. Where is Rhobert Hywel?”

Sherlock gave a magisterial wave of his hand. “Tiresome.” John passed the ball capably to Niall. “Hywel is too mired in this backwater to run. The police will round him up in no time.”

“Hmm.” The sound was noncommittal. Sherlock heard Bloodworth turn a page.

Sherlock sighed into the patient silence: Bloodworth would do as well as the skull, while John was engaged. “I can’t make sense of it. _Why?_ Hywel could have refused to help Sophia Brunton—could even have sabotaged her plans. Why did he play along, and then decide to kill her?” His fingers tangled the silver threads at his temples. “Love thwarted. Some sort of insulted nationalism—the Welsh constable feels it, too.” Sherlock finally levered up, folding his limbs like a yogi and blinking at the grass between. “Sentiment,” he admitted. The afternoon sun made his eyes sting. “My skills are . . . underdeveloped in this area.”

Bloodworth narrowly examined Sherlock’s profile, flicking over the younger man’s slumped shoulders, downcast gaze, and bare, busy feet. Then he looked past him at John and Niall, now working in tandem to mount a lively defense. _“From me far off, with others all too near._ Holmes, my boy. Is your jaundiced eye set upon Madigan?”

“Sonnet 61? You meddlesome bookworm.” Sherlock poked a militant index finger into the turf.

“Quite, quite,” Bloodworth agreed comfortably, and closed his book.

“No,” Sherlock scoffed. The man was being deliberately obtuse—surely half the library noticed at breakfast that John had made his choice. A flush rose along his cheekbones. After a long moment, he wiped the sod from his finger and met Bloodworth’s eyes. “John is limping,” he explained.

Bloodworth weighed the oracular remark and finally nodded. _“Eros et_ _amor patriae,_ Holmes.[1] Men have killed for less.” He settled back in his chair to track the game. When John’s laughing voice carried across the lawn, the bookman smiled down at Sherlock. “Watson seems content today.”

Against his best judgment, he confirmed it: “We spoke.” Bloodworth had the most dogged pertinacity in extracting information—like a mongrel snarling over a tasty bone. Sherlock grudgingly released the flavorsome morsel. “He is . . . marvelously observant.”

Sherlock searched for smugness, a smack of gloating relish, but the bookman’s face revealed only quiet satisfaction. “Then let his observations be your guide,” Bloodworth suggested kindly.

“But the insult—the disrespect,” Sherlock objected. “I don’t understand.” It was manifestly unreasonable. Hywel went along with Brunton’s scheme until the treasure was in their hands, then something changed—a bone-shattering fury, some unforgiveable offense—and he killed her. John’s anger flared—he nearly left, _Sherlock nearly lost him_ —over Sherlock’s most noble impulse in years. He whispered, ashamed, “He won’t let me protect him.”

Bloodworth looked at him sharply. “He is a soldier, Holmes. Surely you know the RAMC motto? _In arduis fidelis:_ faithful in adversity.” A shout of triumph rose from the field; the final goal was Henry’s.

Sherlock glared at Bloodworth and spat, “I have been faithful—always!” He could not be faulted for that, at least. The football players were walking back now, still crowing and baiting each other. Niall looked comfortable by John’s side.

Bloodworth sighed. “Yes, but you offer Watson the fidelity that is easy for you. Will you give him the good faith _he_ needs?” He glanced fondly across the lawn. “He is not a man to be wrapped in cotton wool.”

Sherlock hissed, “I tell you, I don’t understand it!”

“Understand Watson, then,” Bloodworth said, simply enough to calm a frantic child. “What does he need?”

Sherlock stood to face John. “At present?” His haughty tone revealed nothing, but his eyes confessed. “A shower, tea, and a bit of a sit-down.”

“An excellent start,” Bloodworth agreed, and he turned away to wrestle with the folding chair.

When John arrived in the quiet coffee shop, Sherlock looked like the cat that got the cream. He was stationed behind a pot of tea and a heaped tray of sandwiches, enough to provision a small army. Bloodworth was pacing in the corner, absorbed in a phone call. John slid in beside Sherlock and helped himself to a ham-and-mustard triangle. He scoffed most of it before he asked. “This is a proper feast. Did Bloodworth—”

“No,” Sherlock cut him off. “Tea, John?” Without waiting for the answer, he began to pour. “It’s Darjeeling.”

Dazed, John accepted the hot cup. “Ta, Sherlock. Right.” Sherlock was staring at him. “Right.” He took a sip of the excellent tea and pondered the meaning of this bounty, but finally gave it up as a bad job. Nabbing a second sandwich, he looked on with thinly veiled pleasure when Sherlock began to nibble at an egg-and-cress.

“You’re a cool customer,” Niall snorted at John as he and Henry joined them. John wasn’t sure whether to call it a compliment or an accusation, so he shrugged; Sherlock hummed his agreement. Ringing off, Bloodworth took the last chair. “You might have told us about Sophia Brunton,” Niall continued, bumping John’s shoulder companionably as he reached for an anchovy paste sandwich. “I had to rely on Henry for the news. It’s a sorry tale.”

John had to agree, but it wasn’t his to tell. “Stephen Tilbury?” he asked.

“Sure enough,” Henry readily confirmed. “We just spoke. He’s with the Gladstones; I’m to meet them shortly at the new castle to plan the announcement to library staff and readers.” Henry poured himself a cup of tea. “Cheers,” he said, and eyed the assortment of sandwiches. He frowned. “Sophia was a tough nut to crack. I’m sorry I didn’t know her—I think none of us did.”

Tilbury rang Bloodworth about developments at the estate, as well, the bookman reported. After the police completed the crime scene investigation, Constable Frye gave Reginald Gladstone immediate permission to rebury the crypt for public safety. Mr. Gladstone had called in several men, and they made quick work of it. The estate reopened at 3:30. Hywel was still on the loose, so far as Tilbury knew.

A quick recap of the ritual, how Brunton tried to steal it, and how Sherlock cleverly cracked it brought Niall and Henry up to speed. “Anything new, Sherlock?” John asked. He envisioned his friend stretched on the lawn in his thinking posture. The spot would be a bit public once the media got hold of the story, but overall, much more pleasant than 221B during a long case, provided the weather—

“John,” Sherlock was repeating, his voice amused. John looked up, and their eyes caught.

“Oh.” Sherlock dropped the remains of his egg sandwich. “Oh, that’s clever.” He pushed back from the table, his eyes still on John.

“Yes, _that’s it._ Brunton lied to Hywel,” he told John. “It was a big lie. She understood what the treasure was from the start. Something she knew a great deal about, something she could sell: probably a book, judging from the size of the chest, or valuable manuscripts.” He paused to read the solution on John’s face. “A Welsh book, made to honor Deiniol Gwyn.”

“Well done, you,” John breathed. Leaning around John, Niall stuttered something under his breath, but Sherlock’s attention never wavered.

“She knew it,” he went on, “but she couldn’t tell her Welsh lover. Oh, no. Not if she wanted his help—and after Tilbury caught her in the library, she desperately needed Hywel. So she told him some lie, some pretty lie.” Sherlock’s baritone echoed through the empty shop. “She never mentioned the ritual; they had her map, that was enough to be getting on with. And he helped her. _Why?_ Why?”

John’s hand slid behind Sherlock and rubbed a circle over his tense shoulder blade before it dropped away. Sherlock drew a deep breath and continued, “Of course. She said they’d be rich and run away together. Banal, but no doubt effective. Who had money to bury on the estate?”

John knew the question was merely Sherlock’s brain revving, but Niall was new to all of this. “In the 1650s?” he clarified. “No one. The estate was vacant.” Sherlock startled, and his silver eyes finally slipped to the historian. “But in the 1640s,” Niall said with rising excitement, “the Stanleys—the English lords, before the Glynnes—helped King Charles run from Cromwell’s army. Cromwell retaliated by knocking down their castle. The Stanleys had a fortune, but they fled with the clothes on their back.”

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed. “Brunton told him it was English treasure. She was clever, but she didn’t count on the chest.”

Bloodworth gasped. “Constable Lloyd could tell it's Welsh at five paces.”

“The Red Dragon. Wales under siege, beset by England.” Sherlock’s patter fell like a hail of bullets. “Hywel lied to, betrayed by his English lover. Betrayal upon betrayal—she left him for an Englishman.”

“Damn,” Niall swore low. “At the very castle where Gwynedd lost its independence—like the Nine Years’ War for the Irish.” Sherlock and John glanced at each other, confused. Niall continued to sip his tea, but his next words had a serrated edge. “Ended in 1603, when English forces crushed the Irish chieftains and brought a major famine down on Ulster. A footnote in England, maybe, but we remember.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew wider. He was standing now. “That’s the insult. Hywel didn’t want to take the treasure. He carried it home after he killed Brunton, but didn’t keep it there long. I don’t think he’s destroyed it—it means too much to him. No, it’s back at the estate, cached somewhere until he can return.”

“We have to find it—now, before he goes back for it.” With a hand poised to pull out John’s chair, Sherlock remembered the seminarian’s car. “Henry, can you get us there?”

Henry was already fumbling for his keys. “Let’s go.”

***

_St. Deiniol’s Church._

Rhobert hesitated at the wooded margin of the estate: it was late afternoon now, and the churchyard was deserted. The sanctuary’s vivid stained glass windows, memorials to the Glynne and Gladstone families, looked flat and gray from outside. Skirting round the chapel that housed the Gladstones’ effigies, Rhobert slipped among the worn headstones to the high, mossy corner where the Hywels were laid to rest.

He once asked his grandfather—they called him Taid Geth[2]—why the church was in the lowest spot. Did it sink? Taid Geth brushed his calloused knuckles under Rhobert’s chin and told him he was a clever boy to study the land. The parish built its first rustic house of prayer in this place, he said, more than a thousand years ago. Here the church had always stood, and the people of the village raised the churchyard around it as the generations passed. Rhobert was a bigger lad before he understood.

Taid Geth was here now, and Nain Idelle, too—part of the Welsh soil, with all their neighbors and kin. It was not something to fear. Their small marker held just a few words:

 

HYWEL

Gethin / Idelle

 _Gweision Ffyddlon_ [3]

 

Over time their stone would wear away, and their names would fade from living memory, like the obscure ancestors whose broken markers littered the edge of the plot.

The parish’s majestic standing cross splashed a broad shadow across the Hywel graves. Pockmarked and crusted with gold lichen, it towered more than a meter over Rhobert’s head against the cloudless sky. The Saint Deiniol cross was not a gravestone. It marked this place as holy ground. More than the Victorian sanctuary or the graves that lifted the churchyard, it was the Church.

Three steps brought Rhobert to the foot of the cross. It was as rough and unyielding as the villagers who had quarried the limestone and erected it here. _Faithful servants._ He traced his finger over a geometric knot—a rugged echo of the twining goldwork that adorned Bangor’s holy book, but no less beautiful. Rhobert raised his eyes to the tranquil heaven gleaming through the cross’s halo. “ _Deiniol Sant maddeuwch i mi,_ ” he whispered.[4] It meant nothing, he thought, yet still he felt it like a glass of cool water after a dry day’s work.

The sun was getting lower, but he could spare a few more minutes. Turning his back on the estate and the duties ahead, Rhobert settled cross-legged against the monolith. He scratched at the muddy knee of his jeans, then boldly gazed up at Taid and Nain’s modest headstone. It was like meeting his grandfather’s mild, tawny eyes. “Ah, Taid,” Rhobert sighed. _“Fe wnes i beth drwg._ ”[5]

***

_Gladstone estate. Sunday evening._

Rhobert kept to the woods until he passed the red-painted public gate. The police barricades were gone, but they had served their purpose: the estate was silent. Most tourists would be enjoying a late tea or a pint at this hour, in any case. The perimeter trail was safe enough.

Up the slope ahead was the ruined castle. Rhobert’s chest pocket held a letter he had composed in the churchyard. Fingering the envelope, he looked from the grassy ravine at the familiar stonework of the keep soaring above him. His path took him past the ornamental cherry trees, around the chapel, and beyond. After a moment, he took the first step up the hill.

***

Reg Gladstone tried to invite the group into his study, but Sherlock refused to go one step beyond the grand entry hall. “Thank you, Reg, but no time to visit!” he announced brightly, as Stephen Tilbury’s jaw dropped. The great man himself seemed undisturbed, even rather keen, John thought. “We need a sketch of your outbuildings,” Sherlock drawled. “Tool sheds, greenhouses, potting sheds—anyplace Rhobert Hywel might slip in unnoticed and hide an object about so big.” He indicated the rough dimensions, then raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Five minutes later, Sherlock held a rough-and-ready but functional map, showing eight structures in the outer gardens and on the grounds between New Hawarden Castle and the ruin. Henry stayed to talk with the Gladstones and Tilbury. Niall teamed up with Bloodworth and headed east. Calling their thanks over his shoulder, John followed Sherlock toward the outbuildings to the west.

***

Rhobert ducked through the low door into the potting shed’s half-light. The supple odor of compost and dusty mulch—pleasing but too close, like lilies overdue for dividing—overfilled the cramped building. No one had disturbed the shelf above the door: he could see the bundle, still wrapped in black plastic, just as he left it. He didn’t touch it yet. He had been thinking about his letter. Flattening the envelope on the old potting bench, he added a line in Welsh under the English address.

His head barely cleared the low-slung tin roof as he turned around the small room. The shelving dated from Taid Geth’s day. The neat array of fertilizers stacked above the bench satisfied him to the bone, although he noticed the potash supply was a bit low. It was dead useful for composting fruit waste, so they’d want some before the apple harvest. Rhobert swallowed hard.

There could be no more delay. He took the final step to the door and reached for the parcel. Setting it softly on the long bench beside his letter, Rhobert peeled away the bin bag; it was unseemly to treat the treasure like so much rubbish. When the bag fell, he kicked it under the bench. With the envelope and biro back in his pocket, Rhobert carefully lifted the book—heavy inside a cloak of handknit lace—and slipped into the June evening.

***

Sherlock and John were checking their third outbuilding when a text rolled in from Bloodworth.

 

Bernhard Bloodworth. 9 June 2013. 6:34 p.m.

**SH, JW: Lantern & 2 muddy shovels dumped in woodshed. BB**

 

“That’s something, I suppose,” John grumbled, as Sherlock tapped out a quick reply. “Not that there’s any shortage of shovels.” He unwisely kicked at a hoe and scrambled to catch a cascading fall of wooden handles. They had found nothing out of order, and every indication of well cared-for grounds—so Sherlock said.

The final building on their list was a squat, tin-roofed potting shed at the edge of a patch of cultivated woods, southwest of the ruined castle. Sherlock unlatched the low door and bent his head to step inside. John stood in the doorway and ran his eyes across bags of soil piled in the corners and smaller bags and bottles shelved above the scarred bench. “There’s nothing here, Sherlock,” John said as he turned to leave. “Let’s go. We may as well check out the woodshed.”

“No.” Sherlock was just behind John, craning his neck to examine a deep shelf over the door. He scowled, then pivoted on the crowded floor. With a swift sideways kick, he tipped a pyramid of mulch from one corner, toed the bags to the side, then twitched a shoulder to dismiss the effort. Turning slowly, he narrowed his eyes at the potting bench and bent to snatch a rubbish bag from the floor.

“Hywel has been here, John,” Sherlock said as he flipped the bag inside out. John joined him in time to see him pluck a single ivory hair from the slick black plastic. “It’s wool, a match for the fibers I collected in his bedroom closet. Hywel wrapped the treasure—probably in a blanket—and carried it here during the Friday morning rain. He stowed it”—he wheeled—“there.” He and John both gazed at the empty shelf over the door. “And he retrieved it, not ten minutes ago. Come, John!”

Leaving the door swinging behind them, they raced across the wide lawn to Old Hawarden Castle. When they crested the grassy earthworks near the great hall, John stuttered to a stop. “What the—”

No police tape blemished the view. The vault lay hidden under level, stony soil once more, as it had for centuries—but centered directly over the altar was some kind of mat. Had Gladstone’s workers left a tarpaulin? “Come _on,_ John,” Sherlock urged, balanced on a knife’s edge between exhilaration and pique. His warm hand caught John’s and towed him down the rolling fortification and over the bulwark.

It was no tarp—John could see that now. A spider’s web of lace stretched in an ethereal circle over the altar. Caught in its center was a bundle wrapped in yellowed cloth, topped by a white envelope.

Sherlock was there in an instant, on his knees and rolling back the lace to reach the parcel. “It’s the wool from the closet!” he cried, nearly babbling. “He’s returning the treasure, John.” Sherlock had reached the center of the circle. “John?” He finally looked round.

“Stay down,” John ordered, his voice sharp. He was unarmed but poised for combat, covering Sherlock while scanning for threats. Moving slowly around the shawl, he cleared the chapel wall first, turning his head repeatedly to the area’s high point, the keep.

Sherlock began, “John—”

“Down.” John’s eyes moved restlessly. “You got a better look at the station. Describe him, now.”

“Late twenties. Dark curly hair, brown eyes. Tall, a bit over 13 stone, well-built. Casually dressed yesterday.” Sherlock paused. “John—”

“Absolutely not. We have no idea if he’s armed, if this is a trap—” John suddenly broke off and pointed to the keep. “Fuck.” John craned for a better look. “Sherlock, that’s him. Jesus. He’s up there. He’s . . .”

Sherlock rose from his knees and sighted up John’s arm. Rhobert Hywel was climbing the crumbling stonework far above the public observation deck. With his back to the chapel, he edged out toward the fortress’s apex above the ravine.

“He’s going to jump,” John said. With horror fracturing across his face, he took off across the courtyard.

“No,” Sherlock breathed, and his fingers flew over two texts. Vaulting the bulwark, he dashed after John.

Ceith Hywel was not at home. When a text alert interrupted the walk-through of the back garden, Constable Frye reached for his mobile.

 

Sherlock Holmes. 9 June 2013. 6:58 p.m.

**Come at once. Hywel on keep. Jumping. SH**

 

“Jesus Christ. Lloyd, get in the car!” he yelped. The panda car was accelerating before the doors closed.

***

The estate and his troubles felt far away here. Rhobert looked down on the lush ravine where Gwynedd’s men once battled for freedom. In 1282, the keep was too mighty; now Rhobert wished it taller. If it towered like Dinas Emrys, he would open his scaly wings and ride the wind—but that was a flight of fancy, wasn’t it? _Y Ddraig Goch’_ s struggle was not for him.

To his left, Rhobert could make out the shallow basin where the Glynne Oak once grew—strange what this height revealed. Further west, the sun burned over the churchyard and the Saint Deiniol cross.

He did not need to see the chapel again. But behind and far below, he heard men shouting and, down in the village, a pealing siren. Closing his eyes, Rhobert spread his arms wide over Hawarden and dove into the pearly halo of the cross.

  

* * *

[1] _eros et_ _amor patriae_ (Latin: erotic love and love of country)

[2] _taid_ (granddad), _nain_ (grandma)

[3] _gweision ffyddlon_ (faithful servants)

[4] _Deiniol Sant maddeuwch i mi._ (Saint Deiniol forgive me.)

[5] _Fe wnes i beth drwg._ (I did a bad thing.)


	11. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for original character suicide and aftermath.

_Gladstone estate. Sunday evening._

The dark-haired man plummeted out of sight, his arms extended in an easy swallow dive. John ran. There was no traffic here, no lunatic cyclists, no onlookers to block his path. He ran through the thick grass until he lost track of whether he was running to, or running away.

The man was not Sherlock. He was Not Sherlock. Sherlock’s familiar voice cried loud and frantic after him: “John! No, John. Wait!” Niall joined in, and far behind, Bloodworth was bleating something about a text. John ran on. A cascade of sirens rose from the village and charged closer on the estate’s circular drive. Finally John rounded the keep, his feet catching and sliding as he scrambled into the steep ravine.

The jumper’s body lay tumbled and broken at the bottom. Face down, hips twisted. Not Sherlock. No one held John back when he fell to his knees by the curly head. The cracked skull leaked blood and pink-gray brain tissue into the dark locks. John slid his fingers through the gore, probing along the windpipe for the carotid artery. No pulse. Neck slack. No pulse. C1 and C2 cervical fractures, the dazzling brainstem plowed to a reddish pulp. No pulse.

John blinked back the hot mist rising in his eyes. The man’s muscular shoulder, soft in a worn plaid shirt, nudged John’s knee. His hand rested by his bloody ear. The tanned fingers were too coarse and ordinary for the violin—nothing like Sherlock’s. John lifted and cradled the motionless hand as a sound close to a laugh scraped from his throat. He pressed the ulnar artery. There was no pulse.

Sherlock would give his 1805 François Tourte bow—returned to him like a lost lover only days before—to spare John this scene. John ran toward it, with ruinous inevitability. Too far ahead, he hurtled out of sight down the abrupt slope, accelerando thundering to a subito climax.

Sirens shivered on the still summer air. Sherlock jumped in June. He had to get to John.

Fifteen–sixteen–seventeen strides powered him past the keep, with Niall’s steps pounding closer behind. _No._ Sherlock shuddered to a halt. Niall nearly bowled him over the top of the hill; they hesitated there, shoulder to shoulder, heaving in breaths and silently staring into the ravine. It was too late to spare John anything.

Rhobert Hywel was unquestionably dead, shattered and bloody and hopeless. The doctor arched protectively over the broken skull, clutching Hywel’s lax hand against his chest. When he rocked back, still futilely searching the wrist for a pulse, Sherlock saw the blood: hands and forearms and the knees of his faded jeans, all clotted with it. John swayed forward again, like a ministering angel over the dark head, his index and middle fingers digging deeper into the dead man’s wrist.

Sherlock moved first, leaving Niall behind on the ridge. His mind careened, madly out of phase with the awkward clamber down the hillside. Toxicology was a professional necessity, but hematology—the exquisite and delicate chemistry of the blood—was the first science that had lured Sherlock into the laboratory. _Here was too much blood._ Erythrocytes, leukocytes, plasma rushing the vivid hemoglobin out through lacerated blood vessels. Sherlock picked his way down an eroded slide of soil and scree, his eyes never leaving the grisly Pietà below.

The unfamiliar thoughts ran on. Each red blood cell teems with 270 million hemoglobin molecules, thirty times the population of London. How many bloodied men littered the rough terrain of John’s psyche? _Here was one corpse too many._ Sherlock neared John’s side cautiously, like stepping onto treacherous ice.

He crouched by Rhobert Hywel’s head and willed John to notice. “John.” _I need you to see me, John._ One hand on his shoulder, a steady grip. “John?”

Slowly John’s eyes swept up the awkward bend of Hywel’s arm to examine the spot where Sherlock held him. “He’s dead,” he told the elegant hand pressing his shoulder. “I can’t get a pulse.” When he finally looked at Sherlock, the soft square inch between his eyebrows was crumpled like an untidy scatter rug. Sherlock grimly rejected his impulse to kiss the furrows.

A tiny muscle twitched above John’s jawbone. He pushed on with steely efficiency. “Cause of death: blunt force trauma with cervical spine fractures and massive head injury. He was careful about his landing, you see?” John continued to clasp the slack wrist to his chest; with his free hand, he stroked through thick waves of bloody hair to uncover the wreck of Hywel’s skull. “The impact was right here. Kept his arms out of the way.”

Sod the Welshman for jumping . . . efficiently. Sod his look-alike hair.

When Sherlock tore his eyes from John, it was a peculiar relief to find Niall squatting on the other side of the corpse. John Watson had keen instincts about people: excluding the insipid girlfriends, the ones he liked were usually made of stout stuff. Niall seemed to be no exception. If this was his first stiff, he was bearing up remarkably well. The medievalist clearly understood that Rhobert Hywel was past help, Sherlock noted approvingly. His focus was where it belonged—on John.

It was time to end this. When Niall glanced over, Sherlock raised an eyebrow, then gave a tiny signal, a slant of the head. _Away._ Niall’s mouth firmed; he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Good man.

Turning his attention back to John, Sherlock squeezed the shoulder he still held, ran his fingers over the tense deltoid and down, down, until he reached the dark curls under John’s palm. John blinked. “It’s over, John,” Sherlock said. “The police will be here in a moment.” It was a question. _Will you do this for me?_

John responded slowly, like an engine coughing to life. He let Sherlock cup his fingers and draw them away, let him lay down Hywel’s lifeless arm. John’s hands were small and capable and sticky with the Welshman’s blood. Sherlock treasured them as he urged John to his feet, kept them when John noticed Niall.

“All right, John?” Niall asked comfortably. “You’ve got a bit bloody there, mate.” It was well done—nothing to embarrass John. The man rose a notch in Sherlock’s estimation.

“Occupational hazard,” Sherlock interjected. “The gloves are in my jacket back at the library. My mistake.” He glanced down at his £300 Dolce shirt. “Wipe off here, if you like, John. It won’t show.” He tugged the shirttails free and caught John’s hands with his own in the fine burgundy fabric. As he mopped up what he could of the ghastly mess, he towed John a few steps beyond the corpse.

A siren, and then a second, rattled into silence on the circular drive above. “About time, too,” Niall said. He rose and gave Rhobert Hywel a last, respectful look. “I’ll go and show them the way round. I think they’ll have an easier time coming in from the side.” Niall took in Sherlock’s watchful grip on John and—undaunted by their savage appearance—smiled. Sherlock supposed the crescendo he felt in his chest was gratitude. As he turned to hike out, Niall slid his eyes to John and ventured, “Will you two join me?”

John swallowed and slipped his hand from Sherlock’s. “No,” he said. Squaring his shoulders, he glanced back at the body. Sherlock saw a subtle shiver pass down his friend’s spine, but John had decided. “I was the first responder—I should stay here. I’ll wait for the paramedics.” His voice was raw and exhausted.

“It’s quite all right, Niall, thank you.” Sherlock waved him off. “We’ll stay with the body.”

At that, John’s eyes fell closed, but he did not relax. Sherlock watched his delicate lower lip thin to a meager crescent as he frowned. The odds were exceedingly high—at least 96.5 percent—that John was bracing himself to return to the corpse. There would be an informal postmortem, followed by hours of spoon-feeding the imbecilic police. John didn’t want that. He shouldn’t have to endure it.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. The police would have to find another doctor—his was unavailable. “John, I need your help,” Sherlock announced briskly, just as John liked best. Patting his pocket, he retrieved his notebook and smoothly pivoted the doctor away from Rhobert Hywel. “Will you note down your initial observations: what you saw as you approached the scene and the cause of death?”

John tentatively accepted the diary and pen. “You said he broke his neck,” Sherlock prompted. “Which vertebrae are fractured?” Now John would do it. _Please, John._

John gave a single swift nod, with a trace of his usual energy. Turning his back on the dead man, he licked his lips and began to write.

***

John had filled nearly three pages when Niall returned with Constable Frye, Lloyd, and a team of paramedics. Bloodworth was waiting above for Constable Eaton, expected shortly. “Your response time leaves something to be desired,” Sherlock snapped when Constable Frye jogged up. John handed the notebook to Sherlock, and shaking his head, went to join the chief paramedic waiting for him by the stretcher. Two more medics were attending to Hywel, while Constable Lloyd stood by.

Unruffled, the constable responded, “Under ten minutes, I think,” as he eyeballed the fall line from the keep to Hywel’s body. Apparently satisfied, he pulled out a notepad and turned to Sherlock. His sharp eyes swept over the detective’s bloodied shirt. “Mr. Holmes,” he said evenly, “perhaps you could run me through the events.” He paused to pull in Niall, who stood at loose ends nearby. “You too, sir. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name at the road. You are?”

“Niall Madigan, a visiting scholar at the library. I didn’t see the man jump, but I arrived shortly after. Dr. Watson made it here first.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. Time to move this along—John was nearly done briefing the paramedic and was showing every sign of heading back to the body. “The events, as you say, are quite simple. We were searching the estate in two groups, with Reg Gladstone’s permission. Meanwhile, Hywel returned the missing treasure to the chapel.”

Constable Frye looked up from his notes in disbelief. “You’re saying it’s up there now—the treasure he stole from the chest?” A siren throbbing above marked Constable Eaton’s arrival; Frye was on his mobile before the echo faded. “Eaton, secure the site where we found Sophia Brunton. Now!”

Frye rang off hastily as Sherlock charged ahead. “Indeed. He returned the treasure to the altar, and Dr. Watson and I discovered it.” Time was of the essence, but he couldn’t resist a bit of preening. “You’ll find the shawl he placed underneath perfectly matches the wool fibers I collected from his flat.”

John was turning toward Hywel’s body now. With the first responder field protocols—those comforting professional routines— accomplished, the deep lines were resettling across his forehead. Sherlock was finished here. With terse finality he declared, “We did not look at the object, nor did we open Hywel’s suicide note. It is addressed to the police—a full confession, no doubt. Then Hywel climbed the keep and jumped. Here he is: dead.”

Ripping the pages from his diary with a flourish, Sherlock handed John’s account to the constable. “These pages contain Dr. Watson’s observations about the scene and the cause of death. Your case is tied up with a bow. Dr. Watson and I are leaving. You may take our complete statements tomorrow at Gladstone’s Library.” He spun on his heel and headed over to collect John.

Constable Frye stood looking after him, stunned. Niall cleared his throat and volunteered quietly, “It’s a bit of a disturbing scene, officer. Those two have a history, you know.”

He said no more, but it was enough. The graphic tabloid shots of the detective’s presumed suicide were everywhere two years ago—and then there was Constable Evelyn Gregor’s oblique remark about how Sherlock Holmes relied on his doctor. “Oh. Oh, good God,” Constable Frye said, seeing the dark-haired jumper with fresh eyes. “Right then.”

The two men joined Sherlock and John by the waiting stretcher, where John was exchanging a few last words with the chief paramedic. “Would you prefer to work with Constable Eaton at the chapel?” Constable Frye asked Sherlock in parting. “Our next step will be to see what Hywel left us.”

Sherlock slipped one hand to John’s shoulder. A glance at his weary face sufficed to answer the question. “No, thank you, Constable.” Sherlock felt an obstinate craving to play out the endgame, but he could dismiss it. He would see his theory confirmed soon enough, and in the meantime, the police had two distinguished experts on hand to help. “Professor Madigan is the right man to lead that effort,” he advised. “I suggest you work with him. He and Bernhard Bloodworth both know what to expect.”

Niall stared at the detective with plain emotion that surprised Sherlock. With a rough voice, he said simply, “Thank you, Sherlock. Take good care.” As the investigation swirled on around him, Niall watched them go, walking side by side toward the perimeter trail. Neither looked back.

***

_Gladstone’s Library. Sunday evening._

John relaxed his head against the rolled back of room fourteen’s only chair. Through half-open eyelids, he watched Sherlock returning with the rinsed porcelain basin and a second pitcher of steaming water. Several of the library’s renovated rooms were en suite, but the smaller rooms still shared showers and toilets at each end of the long hall. John might have hesitated to use the antique washstand. Happily, Sherlock had no such compunction.                                                                                      

The mullioned window over the stand sent lilac shadows slanting across John’s face and shoulders; at his elbow was a stack of clean white flannels. John was trying not to think. About any of it.

Pausing to spread a bath towel, Sherlock set the empty basin on John’s lap. The thick porcelain felt cool under his palms. Although the last basinful had carried away the worst of it, the Welshman’s blood still lined John's cuticles and darkened his knuckles like old engine grease. Sherlock tipped the pitcher and poured until the hot water ran clear.

Setting the basin aside, he dipped a flannel in the pitcher and folded himself into an origami crane at John’s feet. There he perched, stroking John’s forearms with the warm cloth, while John swallowed against a sour blend of luxury and shame. Eventually, one of them would have to speak. John took the plunge. “I’m all right, Sherlock. I could have given my statement.”

“The statements can wait.” Sherlock’s eyes stayed at knee-level, but his fingers tightened around John’s arm for an instant before they continued their soothing work. Rinse. Dip. Stroke.

John didn’t need nannying. It was too easy to enjoy this—enjoy Sherlock—cocooned here while a man lay dead. “I’ll just finish washing up, okay? Then we could go back to the estate.” It was a half-hearted proposal. He didn’t take the trouble to withdraw from Sherlock’s warm, sweeping flannel.

Sherlock made a stroppy sound, midway between a snort and a sob. “I am not _coddling_ you, John. I— Don’t you see?” The flannel slapped into the basin and billowed like a flag in the pinkish water. With a determined frown and his chest pressed to John’s stained knees, he caught up the towel and kneaded John’s hands like stiff bread dough.

“Hey,” John said, suddenly concerned. “Look at me, Sherlock.” He freed one hand and Sherlock fell back, clutching the damp towel against his blood-streaked shirt. So startlingly soft, that podgy bit under Sherlock’s chin—John reached out and stroked it once, twice, until Sherlock lifted wide eyes. He chased something that looked like regret, open and raw, across Sherlock’s face. “I’m too knackered to see,” John finally admitted. “Tell me?”

Sherlock shook his head, too hard. The towel fell like a soft breath. “It’s my fault.”

John thought of Rhobert Hywel’s shattered skull and, everywhere, the blood—the blood still soaking his knees, centimeters from Sherlock’s anguished eyes. “Nothing about that was your fault,” he said flatly.

“No, it was, _it was,_ ” Sherlock insisted. “I damaged your mechanism, John.”

His damp fingers tangled violently at his temples. John extracted them and held on. Sherlock was clearly waist-deep in the weeds. “What mechanism, exactly?”

With his fingers engaged, Sherlock bounced on his knees, buzzing with misery. He cast about for a comparison, squeezing his eyes shut with the effort. “Like flooding a flow meter,” he finally tried. “It was too much, what I did—before, and then today.” His pale eyes snapped open and held John’s. “You are supremely regulated for steady control, but the volume of titrant was excessive. I rushed ahead and spoiled the procedure, and _I don’t know how to recalibrate._ ” His voice fell, suddenly hesitant. “You are essential to this titration, John.”

John was fairly certain that Sherlock had just compared him to a faulty burette. He may have suggested—in a purely complimentary sense—that John was a steady drip. Yet somehow, it was blooming romance—and more than that, an apology. Best to seek clarification, all the same. “I need to be sure I understand,” he said quietly. “Could you try it in plain English, for me?”

“I’m sorry, John. Will you stay?”

John pressed Sherlock’s fingers and left them curled around his blood-stained knees. His hands rose to Sherlock’s impossible hair. He forked through the curls, fingerprints kissing the unbroken skull. “The police don’t need us tonight,” he verified.

“No. Will you stay?”

“You left the crime scene for me,” John observed. “You didn’t even wait to see the treasure.” He rubbed soft circles over the exquisite osseous tissue: frontal bone, coronal suture, parietal bone, squamosal suture, occipital bone. First-year anatomy fulfilled, perfect, intact.

Sherlock nudged his head deeper into John’s hands. “John.” The name filled his mouth, slid past his pharynx and into his esophagus. Propelled downward by striated muscle, it heated the hidden curves of his stomach. John.

“We can stay,” John answered.

***

John returned from the toilets wearing a ribbed vest and pajama bottoms. His shirt and jeans were hopeless. He had rolled them into a tight ball and dumped them, rather furtively, in the bottom of the rubbish bin. It was barely 9:00, but he was for bed.

Sherlock had arranged the leather desk chair alongside John’s single bed. Barefoot, his filthy shirt hanging untucked, he looked ready to settle in with the old book he held. It was a treatise on beekeeping, John noticed—one of the lot they had collected in Hay-on-Wye two years before. John grinned, then glanced down at the burgundy shirt. “Even your fancy dry-cleaner will never get that out,” he said, nodding at the dark, stiff stains. “Too bad; it’s one of your favorites.”

Sherlock smiled a small, secret smile as he stretched back in the chair.

“What?” John grumbled. He had no hope of outmaneuvering Sherlock tonight.

“Actually,” Sherlock replied breezily, keeping his eyes on John, “I prefer black or white—best for lab work, less distracting. But I discovered some time ago that you are 8.7 percent more likely to look, and your attention is 11 percent more sustained, when I wear this shirt.” His mouth quirked as he awaited John’s reaction.

“Oh, bugger me,” John groaned, not bothering to deny it. “It’s _my_ favorite shirt.”

Sherlock smiled smugly as John slid onto the bed facing him. “Well, ta for that,” John said, “but I’m afraid it has to go.” All cheekiness evaporated when John reached for the top button. Button by button, he revealed Sherlock’s buttermilk flesh, scarred, flecked with moles, unique, and priceless.

Across broad lawns and manicured gardens, past a blue-and-white police line, in the soft light of Reginald Gladstone’s personal study, Bloodworth, Niall, Tilbury, Henry, and the Gladstone brothers crowded around a book cradle on the prime minister’s reading desk. With borrowed gloves, Bloodworth delicately turned the ancient vellum pages of the White Book of Saint Deiniol. Niall drank in each page, all the while telling the story he could see: the faithful, transcendent work of Welsh monks; the abiding beauty of the Gospels; and their radiant union in calfskin, paint, and ink.

Near the back of the volume, Bloodworth turned a page to reveal the final Gospel. “This is the Gospel of John,” Niall began, reciting _In principio erat Verbum_ as he traced the air above the complex opening letters. The cross on the facing page, rich in bittersweet brown, rose from a field of burgundy as deep as heart’s blood.

 

_North Wales Police station. Monday morning._

“What does the Welsh bit mean, Lloyd?” Constable Frye asked, poised over a pad of sticky notes. The case’s evidence filled the small conference table. They had already reviewed the letter Rhobert Hywel left with the treasure. Written in English, it was a businesslike description of the crime: Brunton’s proposal, their late-night search, and the murder. It was just as Sherlock Holmes had deduced—so said the two from the library who had helped at the scene.

Constable Lloyd picked up the envelope. The front of it read:

 

POLICE

_I Cymru. Boed i Dduw faddau i mi._

They all understood the first sentence in Welsh, but Constable Lloyd repeated it: “‘For Wales. May God forgive me.’”

Hywel’s letter said he killed the librarian when he realized they were looting Welsh treasure. That was motive enough for the English-speaking police: _C_ _enedlaetholdeb Cymreig._ Welsh nationalism—the sentiment, woven into government policy, that put Welsh first on their bilingual road signs. But _Y Ddraig Goch_ was only one leg of it, Constable Lloyd thought, scanning the addendum that spoke straight to him. Nation and church. He never meant to, but Rhobert Hywel violated both.

With a brisk click, Constable Frye capped his biro, stuck the translation to the envelope, and returned the letter to the evidence grid. They were ready to move on to the dragon-carved chest. Lloyd settled back to listen; this could be a long one.

“Shut it, you two,” Constable Frye grumbled with no real bite at the yawning junior officers. “I know it’s gone midnight. We’re all tired, so let’s wrap this up.” Nursing cups of lukewarm coffee, the officers sat well back from the grid. Everyone looked a bit afraid of the magnificent Welsh chest now, Constable Lloyd thought dryly.

“As I was saying, Old Hawarden Castle is a scheduled monument”—Frye glared at Andy as he stifled another noisy yawn—“so the historic environment lads from Cadw would have paid us a visit eventually. Just a routine inquiry to confirm that the illegal disturbance of the site did no permanent damage.”

“To be clear, Mr. Gladstone owns the objects Brunton and Hywel turned up, because the site is on his private property.” Constable Frye’s eyes lingered on the exquisite chest. “Cadw suggests reporting finds to the Portable Antiquities Scheme, but it’s entirely voluntary.”

“That’s the standard procedure.” He looked around the table, his face dead serious. “The book we found changes everything.”

“A few of you got to see it before it left our custody,” he continued. “Count yourselves lucky. Mr. Gladstone was within his rights to have it moved to the library—I’m glad he did, in fact.” He paused until every pair of eyes was on him. “This is a major archaeological find, and I want the North Wales Police on the right side when the story breaks. This means full cooperation with Gladstone and Cadw, am I understood?” A murmur of agreement echoed around the table.

“Good,” Frye nodded. “Our missing person is found. We know how Sophia Brunton ended up where she did, and we have Rhobert Hywel’s written confession. All that’s left is to close the case with a minimum of fuss—leave the fancy bells and whistles to Dr. Watson’s blog.”

Andy and Evan perked up for a moment. If they were imagining the pat on the back they’d all get, Constable Lloyd mused, they’d be well advised to skip Watson’s account. But who was he kidding? They and all of Hawarden would read the damn thing, and it would be donkey’s years before any of them would live it down.

“It’s time to set aside these unfortunate events,” Frye was saying. He cleared his throat and glanced at Constable Lloyd. “What we want everyone in Wales—and around the world—to remember is that this force played a central role in recovering a lost Welsh treasure.” Lloyd lifted his cup and swallowed a bitter gulp of coffee. If only they could have saved the Welshman, as well as the treasure.

“A Cadw historian will be at Gladstone’s Library later today to view the book and give Mr. Gladstone any advice and assistance he needs,” Constable Frye explained. “Lloyd, you’ll attend that meeting in your capacity as Welsh liaison and outreach officer.”

“Yes, sir.” He was more than willing; he’d give his right arm for a closer look at the book.

“I’m also transferring the Brunton case to you, effective immediately. I’d like to see it closed this week—keep me briefed.”

Lloyd blinked with surprise, but nodded. “That shouldn’t be a problem,” he agreed. “I’ll take brief statements from Holmes and Watson, and then we just need the autopsy reports.”

Frye turned to Constable Eaton. “What do you have on Sophia Brunton’s next of kin, Eaton?”

She squinted at her notes. “Only a great aunt in Dorchester so far.”

“All right,” he said. “I want her notified this morning; coordinate with Lloyd and the Dorset Police. Then you can take the remainder of the day and tomorrow off.” As she bent to gather her papers, Frye fired off the rest of their orders: “Andy, you’re off duty today. Evan, report to the station at 9:00. Get out of here, all of you—Lloyd, you stay.”

When the others had cleared out, Constable Frye turned to him with a spent smile. “Had enough of the coffee, Gareth?”

Constable Lloyd chuckled. “Yeah, all right, Gordon.” It had been a long and painful day.

Frye quickly returned holding a flask of single malt and two plastic cups. Settling in beside Lloyd, he poured generous drinks. They sat in companionable silence sipping for a moment before Frye spoke. “Bollocks,” he sighed. “How bad was it tonight?”

Constable Lloyd had the hateful duty of notifying Rhobert Hywel’s parents. At the front door, Rhys Hywel showed little surprise. Later, when Lloyd had no more to tell, the elder Hywel had wept. “Pedr said Rhobert was in trouble with the police over the English librarian,” he rambled, “and when he missed the lads’ match—” And then the tears rolled down the hardy Welshman’s face. Rhobert’s mother didn’t cry, but her green eyes went blank, like windows with the blinds clattering down.

“Bad enough,” he admitted. “His mum wouldn’t let me leave until I ate a slice of her _bara brith._ _”_

“What’s that?” Frye swirled his scotch. His absent frown looked like the only kind of sympathy Lloyd could stomach.

“Tea bread. For some reason, it reminded her of the note he left while they were at the football game.” Lloyd barely remembered how to swear on a saint, but he swore in formal Welsh— _May Saint Deiniol uphold me_ —before she would let him take it.

Constable Frye reached for the brief note and passed it over. “Translate it again, will you, Gareth? I didn’t get it down before.” He was ready with the pad of stickies.

Lloyd reread the few, sad words. “It’s an apology—‘I’m sorry.’ But the way he said it, he took all the blame. ‘It’s my fault’ might be closest. The second sentence is ‘I love you both.’” He watched as Frye jotted down the translation. “I want to return this later today, as soon as we photograph it. I promised her, Gordon.”

The chief constable understood. Setting down his pen, he laid his hand on the soft lace shawl, folded next to the collected fibers. “Sherlock Holmes says this came from Hywel’s closet. From the family, you think?”

Lloyd nodded—it was superb, a precious heirloom. “Handknit,” was all he said.

“Bring it to her after the photos are shot. She should have it.”

Ten minutes later, their cups were drained, and the two officers stood outside the locked conference room. They might yet manage a few hours of sleep. “I’ll send you the meeting details,” Frye said, “as well as Sherlock Holmes’s mobile number. Text him to set up the interviews.” He pulled out his phone to forward the information. “Ah, piss,” he snorted. “I forgot about this question from Holmes—came in when we had bigger fish to fry. Handle it, yeah? I’ll send it on.”

Dropping his notes on his cluttered desk, Constable Lloyd paused as two texts rolled in. The first was the old message from Sherlock Holmes.

 

Sherlock Holmes. 9 June 2013. 4:11 p.m.

**Send at earliest convenience: full names of Hywel’s flatmate, father, paternal grandfather. SH**

 

It sounded like bells and whistles to Lloyd, especially at this hour—but it was easy enough to satisfy the detective. He already knew Pedr Blevins and Rhys Hywel; his old man would remember the granddad. He’d ring his da in the morning.

***

 _Gladstone’s Library._ _Monday morning_ _._

Buttery honey, tingling freshness of cucumber. Soft as a syrupy fig from an Alexandria street market. Succulent kiss. Sherlock lapped it up.

After he died, he dreamed of John. In his dreams, John kissed him fiercely, jagged embraces dissolving like sugar in hot tea. John decomposing under Sherlock’s grasping fingers. He feared John then—what he did to John, how John melted away. He fought sleep. And when he woke, he was panicked, hard, and alone.

“Sherlock,” John murmured, gentling him with arcing strokes from shoulder to waist. It was not a dream—by some fortuity he could scarcely comprehend, he was wanted in John’s bed. Sherlock nosed forward until John found him again. He took sleepy sips of Sherlock’s lower lip, and sighing, pulled him closer. Sherlock relaxed against his chest and languidly thought of tendrils. Thigmotropism. His tendrils would reach for John: a common morning glory _(Ipomoea purpurea)_ in the absurdly narrow bed.

“Had a kip after all, did you?” John's rough nighttime voice roused Sherlock more than the words. “Mmm, you’re still half-asleep, love. Stay with me.” His firm hand rubbed deliciously over Sherlock’s bare shoulders and trailed up his neck.

Sherlock pressed into his hand with a small, aggrieved sound. “Awake,” he objected, and rounded hazily, like _Convolvulaceae_ to the sun, for another kiss. John’s lips were slow and generous; his fingers idled on Sherlock’s scar as he drifted back to sleep.

In the moon-bright room, twined around John’s solid contours, Sherlock stepped through a blooming arbor fragrant with morning glories into the mind palace’s courtyard. Uzbekistan was interred here, and the rank room in Matsuyama where he extinguished Moriarty’s East Asia operation. The courtyard was palest green with young grass springing from the barren soil. Perhaps he would cultivate a plush lawn—or maybe, with John, undertake a full excavation.

Before they slept tonight, John asked him to choose a safeword. Sherlock felt John’s hand curled over the ugly scar, reassuring and warm. “Uzbekistan” would do.


	12. Holywell

_Gladstone’s Library._ _Monday morning_ _._

Bloodworth was cleaning his teeth in the en suite when he first heard it. Back in the bedroom, the whinging drifted in from the hall at floor level and resolved into words. A smile cracked across Bloodworth’s face.

“But John, I can hear him. He’s _awake._ ” Even sotto voce, Sherlock Holmes’s baritone carried.

“Are you peeking under his door?” John’s stage whisper rose in disbelief, then sputtered into an indulgent chuckle. “You utter tosser. Give the man a few more minutes of peace.”

Morning quiet hours ended shortly. John had done well to keep the detective from banging down his door overnight, Bloodworth reflected. And Sherlock had done well—very well indeed—to put John ahead of the case. The Welshman’s grisly end had been more than Bloodworth could face. John Watson met adversity head-on, time and again, and did his duty. But last night, Sherlock had given him something vital . . . something loving. He gave him a reason to stand down.

Out in the hall, the wheedling continued. “But I want to see it, John. Don’t you want to see it, right now?” Bloodworth was grinning as he stuffed two extra pairs of cotton gloves into his briefcase, along with a magnifying glass. No doubt a bit of deduction would be the next gambit—it rarely failed him. Bloodworth paused to listen in.

“Gladstone transferred the book here last night. Of the group at the estate, only Bloodworth has the necessary rare books expertise, so Tilbury gave him temporary charge of it until the head librarian arrives this morning.” Sherlock’s tone turned pleading. “It’s here, John, and soon we won’t be allowed within arm’s length. _I want to see it._ ”

Fair enough, Bloodworth decided. And every word of it was true: surely the man deserved a reward for that. Not of the sort John Watson could offer, of course—but that was between them. They fit like lock and key, those two. At 6:57, with his eyes twinkling, Bloodworth opened the door.

“The binding—well, it’s extraordinary,” Niall proclaimed, sloshing coffee over the rim of his paper cup as he paced. “Of course, I’m no specialist.” He paused to flash a sheepish grin at Bloodworth. “My understanding is that only two other European books of this age survive intact, in their original bindings. This is the first from Ireland or Wales.”

John sprawled next to Sherlock on one of the lounge’s overstuffed sofas, cheerfully idle while the resident experts compared notes. As predicted, the head librarian had promptly evicted them when he arrived this Monday morning to find the surprise of his career waiting in special collections. But it was fine, John thought—better than fine. They had spent an unforgettable hour with the book. Now there was the library’s potent coffee and Sherlock, warm and intent at his side.

“Quite right,” Bloodworth confirmed. “The others are English and Bavarian. So very little escaped both the Vikings and the Reformation, particularly in the Celtic world—and then there’s simple wear and tear over more than a millennium.”

Sherlock took in Niall’s dreamy expression with a tiny snort and turned to Bloodworth. “How precisely can we date the book?” he asked.

Bloodworth rolled his Hay Festival mug between his hands as he considered. “Scholars will be able to narrow it down to plus or minus a decade, I’d guess. The binding will help. Did you notice, Madigan?” Niall had settled in one of the large club chairs and was listening closely. With a rueful shrug, he shook his head.

“The leather cover is original, but it predates the goldwork by hundreds of years,” Bloodworth explained. “The sewing is more recent, too. I believe the jeweled ornaments were added, along with the colophon pages, when the binding was in need of repair. Around 1200, probably—treasure bindings were all the rage by then, and the calfskin cover would have seemed distressingly plain.”

John remembered the Welsh colophon—a single sentence at the front of the volume, like a dedication in a modern book. Bloodworth had shared Niall’s tentative translation, but Sherlock immediately spotted the key words: _Bangor Fawr_ and _Deiniol Sant._ The book was made at Saint Deiniol’s own abbey to honor him. Somehow it survived the Viking raid that wiped out the monastery in 1073.

John could see Sherlock rapidly absorbing the information, slotting it into the mind palace’s arcane filing system behind closed eyelids. Without opening his eyes, Sherlock threw out his next question with the usual irreverence. “Why pile on gold and gems, but reuse an old scrap of leather?”

After a long swallow of coffee, Niall suggested mildly, “I suppose because it was a relic of Bangor Fawr. The monks’ fate was a rallying cry for the abbeys along Wales’ northern coast. Songs and poetry told the tale. Welsh people still remember it.”

Bloodworth added, “And it was no common scrap of leather, Holmes. It’s the finest calfskin—pure white when it was new.”

“White?” Sherlock stiffened, his eyes opening wide. Then he collapsed against John’s shoulder as if his strings had been cut and began to chuckle.

While Niall and Bloodworth exchanged baffled glances, John caught his hand. “What is it, Sherlock?” With a final disbelieving huff, Sherlock collected himself. “Whispered rumor, pious myth. Lost but never quite forgotten. The White Book of Saint Deiniol. It was a visual pun—a mnemonic.”

Niall was back on his feet, his empty cup tumbling across the floor. “Deiniol Gwyn!” he cried. He glanced around at the curious crowd gathering for breakfast and lowered his voice. “The White Book is called _Y Llyfr Gwyn_ in Welsh. When the saint is mentioned, he’s Deiniol Sant— _Sant_ was more common than _Gwyn_ by the twelfth century. But it’s Gwyn, isn’t it, Sherlock?” His eyes were wide with the realization. _“_ _Y Llyfr Gwyn o_ _Deiniol Gwyn._ _”  
_

“Gwyn,” Sherlock repeated. “The White Book, the blessed book, the Book of Deiniol the Blessed.”

The breakfast gong rang over Sherlock’s last words. As they stood, John saw Henry pushing through the growing queue to reach them. The seminarian fell in between Niall and Bloodworth, brimming with news about the day’s hastily organized events: meetings, a press conference, a government historian’s visit, the first formal presentation of the book. Henry and Niall were off to meet with Tilbury and Reg Gladstone over breakfast.

The ambitious schedule washed over John, mingling with shrill snatches of conversation, clattering cutlery, and mouthwatering smells from the dining room. Sherlock cut through it all with a single low word against his ear: “Tedious.” His lips bent into a smile and lingered there for an instant, softer than a kiss, before they stepped together into the noisy room.

Ten o’clock found them packed into the small conference room adjoining the warden’s office. Tilbury and Reg Gladstone shared the head of the table, flanked by Henry and Niall. Niall and Trynt Parry, the Cadw historian, were conferring over a notepad, where Sherlock could see a growing list of the major monasteries closest to Bangor Fawr. “Clynnog Abbey was barely 30 kilometers down the coast,” Niall proposed, as he jotted down the name and marked it with an asterisk.

The head librarian fussed with his laptop, queuing up a slide of the White Book’s gleaming cover. The book itself, Sherlock noted, was conspicuously absent. As the vivid image finally flickered onto the projection screen, the last of their group slid through the propped door. Constable Lloyd cradled the ornate wooden chest, carefully nested in a towel. “Sweet loving Jesus,” Niall breathed, as he and Parry rose to their feet in unison. Bloodworth was closer: pulling on his cotton gloves, he gently lifted the precious box from the constable’s arms. It soon took pride of place in the center of the table, cushioned on the soft towel, while the librarian’s slide show looped behind it.

Tilbury’s preliminaries had been insufferably dull, Sherlock mused, but Reg Gladstone was scarcely better. “Before we move forward,” he was droning, “I want to acknowledge the double loss of both a longtime librarian and a conscientious and well-liked employee of the Gladstone estate.” Stealing a glance at John to assess the proper reaction to this twaddle, Sherlock pasted on his best approximation of John’s somber attentiveness.

At long last, Gladstone got to his point: Aberystwyth. The National Library of Wales would be the book’s permanent home. Gladstone held up a hand to stop the polite applause. “I have already spoken with the head of the National Library, and we’ve determined that the first public exhibition of the White Book of Saint Deiniol will take place right here at Gladstone’s Library.” He turned to Niall. “I’m delighted to announce that Dr. Madigan has agreed to curate the exhibit.” This time the applause was genuine and sustained.

Niall quickly hit his stride sketching initial plans for the exhibit, to open in December. He would begin research immediately, returning to Gladstone’s Library in the fall to prepare the exhibition catalogue. “I’ll work with Welsh colleagues from Cadw and the Library of Wales,” he concluded, “and Henry, as well,” he added, shooting a warm smile at the seminarian.

“As thesis topics go, this is hard to beat,” Henry chimed in with a laugh.

“The research will keep us busy for years, I expect,” Niall said happily, as Bloodworth nodded. “The questions are fascinating: from the book’s age—when we speak with the media today, I’ll be estimating circa 790, a bit older than the Book of Kells—to its later provenance.” He glanced up as the enthroned man holding a book slid across the projection screen. “And the textual puzzles! I’d like to think this icon depicts Deiniol himself, for instance, but others may argue in favor of Christ or Saint John. The peacocks are a bit of a mystery.” His brown eyes alight, he looked across the table at Sherlock. “The book’s a case still to be solved, really.”

Turning his attention from the screen, the Cadw historian inquired how the chest came to be in police custody. Lloyd described the previous day’s events, and soon the two Welshmen were standing over the wooden coffer, speaking in rapid Welsh and nodding in agreement while Parry indicated different pairs of carved dragons. John leaned close to Sherlock and whispered, “He’s chuffed about it, isn’t he? I wonder if they’ll keep it with the book.”

 _“Diolch i chi,_ ” said Parry, as Lloyd returned to his seat.[1] “It’s simply remarkable,” Parry murmured, and turned to Niall. “Civil War vintage—perfectly preserved. A seventeenth-century Welsh piece is rare enough, but the _Ddraig Goch_ motifs are unprecedented. It must have been custom-made for the book.”

On the spot, they hatched a plan. Gladstone agreed to give the chest and the book’s linen bag to the National Library of Wales, along with the White Book, but the ritual manuscript would remain at Gladstone’s Library. The exhibition and catalogue would feature the story of the family ritual: the treasures it guarded, its meaning, and how Sherlock Holmes uncovered both.

“May I see the ritual document?” Parry asked. The head librarian replaced the slide show with a scan of the parchment. “Fascinating,” the historian muttered as he stared at the screen. “It takes the form of a catechism, linking the family’s hereditary responsibility to a particular place on their land. Aquinas promoted this technique as part of the art of memory— _ars memoriae_ —to help monks memorize the Bible.”

“The Scholastics,” Sherlock scoffed. “Hardly the Glynnes’ model.”

Parry looked annoyed, but Niall smiled tolerantly. It was . . . encouraging. Sherlock continued on, faster now. “The Glynnes were Oxford men, as William Henry Gladstone’s _Hawarden Visitors’ Hand-Book_ recounts. There is a copy in each bedroom upstairs, if you’ve neglected that foundational work.” John produced a small strangled noise beside him, and Niall firmly clamped his hand over his mouth. “They would have followed the classical tradition—eminently practical for politicians and men of action.”

“Aristotle, Quintilian, Cicero,” Bloodworth agreed. “Sources for your own mind palace, Holmes, if I’m not mistaken.”

“A palace, Sherlock?” Niall gaped. “Aristotle suggested a chamber, I believe, or a small house.”

“Well, yes. It’s a lot to keep tidy, but I manage,” Sherlock replied modestly. The folds around John’s cobalt eyes settled into a falcate crinkle of fond amusement. It was a good look. Sherlock took an instant to dart up the seventeen steps to his mind’s inner sanctum, where he tucked the expression—a rare public example of amusement variant 27D—alongside the cushion of John’s red armchair for later analysis and archival preservation.

Returning to the matter at hand, he said, “The ritual worked like the mind palace in miniature. It did more than merely describe the route to a hiding place; it structured the memory around a physical place the family could picture.” Niall and Trynt Parry were both frantically scribbling on their shared pad. “It was a mnemonic—like the visual pun of the White Book’s cover.”

“As memory aids go, the ritual failed rather miserably.” He turned to Reg Gladstone. “Reg, where did you recite the ritual when you came of age?”

With confusion rampant across his bland face, Gladstone answered, “In my father’s study—the room where several of us first saw the book last night.”

“That tradition came later,” Sherlock decided, “when the book had been forgotten. No, your ancestors would have taken their heirs to Old Hawarden Castle—starting at the base of the Glynne Oak. They would have walked the ritual.”

The White Book was found, but the whole truth of it—facts, events, motives—might never be recovered. History was too uncertain for Sherlock’s taste. Best to leave it to Niall, with a few parting words of advice. “I think you’ll find that only a few generations after the Civil War, a Glynne patriarch died before he could pass the baton to the next generation. The coming-of-age ceremony continued as a family tradition,” he concluded, “but by the 1720s, it was an empty ritual.”

“According to William Henry Gladstone, a Glynne son became rector of the parish church in 1726. No longer faithful Catholics in secret, no longer reluctantly following the required Protestant forms—no, indeed. Francis Glynne was an Anglican priest.”

***

_Glynne estate. 1681._

_“The fifth from the first,”_ young William replied in solemn cadence.

’Twas not the fifth from the first—not June—but tender May. Soft wind stirred the Welsh oak over the vacant Penarlâg estate, two days’ ride from the family seat in Caernarfonshire. Today, on this eighteenth return of his birth, his beloved son and heir assumed the Glynnes’ sacred trust. Today, he must study this land and remember. “Where was the sun?” Sir William pressed in turn.

The youth’s keen eyes lifted to the crumbling castle. He had grown tall since he went up to Oxford. His extended arm indicated the steeper angle of midsummer sun. _“Over the keep.”_

He knew it well. Yet Sir William emptied his voice of fatherly pride and continued the catechism in stately measure. “Where was the shadow?”

His son’s voice was firm. _“Under the oak.”_ Together they paced the shadow to its utmost extent, then stepped just beyond, to counterfeit June’s longer shade.

As William counted out the strides, they spiraled inward, ever closer to what was hidden. With his son’s solid shoulder pressing his own, they took the final steps to the west. Below was the repository his own father had devised to safeguard Cymru’s imperiled treasure. Sir William had never seen _Y Llyfr Gwyn._ His generation, ruled by the bastard Elizabeth, would not know that privilege.

Please God the day of safety may come to his heir and to all Cymry. The dark road stretched on ahead, a jeopardy for the Glynnes, but never a burden—in troth, a family honor.

Only four lines of the _memoria technica_ remained.[2] Father and son together, they finished it.

“What shall we give for it?”

_“All that is ours.”  
_

“Why should we give it?”

_“For the sake of the trust.”_

 ***

 _Gladstone’s Library._ _Monday afternoon_ _._

John swallowed the last bite of his salmon sandwich and threw back the lukewarm dregs of his tea. Niall, Henry, and Trynt Parry were in special collections, viewing the White Book under the head librarian’s gimlet eye. Access would be strictly limited until the December exhibition, since humidity and even light exposure could damage the recent finds. John and Sherlock would not see the book again on this visit—it was too bad, but couldn’t be helped. John had given Constable Lloyd his statement; now Sherlock was taking his turn with the officer in a quiet corner of the coffee shop. In the meantime, he and Bloodworth were polishing off their lunch.

Bloodworth dabbed primly at his mouth when Sherlock and the Welsh officer stood. “Shall we, Watson?” he asked.

When they joined the other men, Sherlock was pulling up the Bangor Uni study on his phone. His index finger flicked across the screen until he reached a page on data collection that John had not seen. “While you were playing football,” Sherlock remarked. Bloodworth chuckled as he leaned in for a glimpse. “Here we are,” Sherlock said, handing the phone to the constable. “The Glynne Oak’s final measurements were taken on Thursday, May 11, 1989, by P. Blevins, R. Hywel, R. Hywel, and G. Hywel.”

“Right,” Constable Lloyd confirmed. “I can remember the storm. Limbs were down everywhere on the way to school that morning. Of course,” he considered, “Rhobert would have been quite a little lad—not in school yet—and his cousin even younger.”

“Do you have the names I requested?” Sherlock urged.

Lloyd checked the phone again. “Aye, that’s his family, no doubt about it,” he said. “It’s nice, yeah? They must have let the boys help.” Sherlock’s significantly raised eyebrows brought him to the point. “The flatmate is Pedr Blevins, and the other two are his father Rhys and grandfather Gethin. The granddad is gone now, but my da told me he worked at the estate his whole life—chief groundsman when he retired. Rhys Hywel is a gardener.” He added quietly, “And all the Hywels are poets. There’s music in their blood, my da said, way back.”

Sherlock was beaming. “That’s extraordinary, Sherlock!” John said, sliding an arm around his shoulder. It was the mechanism they had been missing—clear evidence that Rhobert Hywel had the information Sophia Brunton needed to follow the ritual. “What are the chances?” he marveled. “Sophia Brunton stumbled across one of the few people in Hawarden who could help her.”

“A prodigious coincidence,” Bloodworth agreed. “Well done, Holmes. Evidently young Hywel had the ill luck to know too much.” The bookman stuttered to a stop, a shadow crossing his face. “Unless Brunton found his name in the Bangor data and reconciled with him for that very reason.”

Looking interested, Sherlock opened his mouth to respond. “Bollocks,” Constable Lloyd interrupted. “It’s a red herring.”

Sherlock shrugged out of John’s embrace and spun toward the constable. “Explain.”

“You’re on the wrong track,” he insisted calmly. “It makes sense that he filled her in, I daresay, but she could have asked anyone. And you—if you had taken the trouble to talk with the locals, you’d understand that. Any Hawarden native knows where the Glynne Oak grew.”

The constable spoke with unquestioned confidence. John was sure Lloyd believed it, but he pressed him just the same: “So you could find the spot, even at dusk?” Lloyd nodded. “What about the height?” John asked. “Can you estimate the Glynne Oak’s height after all these years?”

“Of course, or near enough, anyway. Maybe thirty-five meters, closer to forty?” The constable closed his eyes as if admiring a hidden vista. “I’d guess thirty-seven meters.”

“Thirty-eight,” Sherlock tersely confirmed. “How did you know?”

Constable Lloyd stared at them for a long moment with something like pity in his eyes. “It was our own Welsh oak,” he finally said. “We knew it. And it’s not lost to us, because we remember.”

With pointedly courteous handshakes all around, Constable Lloyd was hurrying off to view the book. The head librarian had grumbled, but Parry insisted he deserved the chance, as a representative of both the police force and the Welsh-speaking community. Lloyd was right, John thought, as they watched the Welshman go. Not one of them ever thought to ask. The case would be closed this week, the officer had said in parting. Some violations, some rifts, ran too deep to close so easily.

Shaking his head, Bloodworth turned to them with a subdued smile and fond warmth in his voice. “And still I say, well done—both of you, my boys. You’ve performed a great service to this library and to Wales. Thank you.” They strolled down the front hall toward the grand arched door; there was time for a walk in the garden. “Are you firm in your determination to leave today, Holmes?” Bloodworth inquired. The bookman still had more than two weeks in front of him at Gladstone’s Library. “It’s the most excitement the place has seen in a century, I should think. London can’t hold a candle to it.”

John didn’t know Sherlock’s plans. “Back to Baker Street, then?” he prompted.

“No,” Sherlock said. “I think not.”

***

Clinking glassware and the muffled sounds of dying conversations floated up the stairs to the residential quarters as Sherlock and John came down with their bags. Sherlock had already endured one sherry hour—a pointless affair, he groused—and John didn’t mind dodging the crowd. An afternoon press conference broke the news of a significant archaeological find at Old Hawarden Castle. This evening, Niall was presenting the White Book of Saint Deiniol to library residents, staff, and hand-picked reporters—rather more of them than John had expected. The lounge was packed.

With their goodbyes said, they were off to catch their cab. They’d be back for a weekend in the fall to help Niall with the exhibition and to set up markers on the estate so that the Gladstone family and library visitors could follow the ritual to the book’s hiding place.

Sherlock and John paused in the dim hall outside the lounge for a look. Impromptu seating crowded the space, with standing room at the back rapidly filling. Bloodworth was in the front row beside the Gladstone brothers. Glancing up, he bent a puckish smile in their direction before returning his attention to Tilbury, who was rising to open the event. As the lights dropped, Henry adjusted the screen above the podium to unveil the White Book’s luminous cover. The towering Celtic cross cast ruby and emerald beams over the podium and listeners’ upturned faces.

Looking every inch the professor in an Irish tweed jacket, his unruly hair finally tamed, Niall was waiting to step up to the podium; one thumb beat a nervous tattoo against his trousers’ crisp crease. Henry was back in his clerical collar this evening. As silence fell, he brushed past Niall, close enough to bump shoulders, and John saw him flash a smile of radiant encouragement. Niall followed Henry with his eyes, then settled in to listen to Tilbury’s introduction.

“You don’t suppose . . .” John whispered.

“Not yet. But the attraction is clear.”

Henry was standing along the wall not far from the podium. John’s attention strayed helplessly to the white strip at his throat. He pictured his Army chaplain, Father Bailey, a Catholic with a bottomless supply of saint medals and a barely managed drinking habit. “He’ll be a priest someday.”

“Hmm, perhaps. Church in Wales.” The distinction was lost on John. Sherlock leaned closer to whisper an explanation. “The Church in Wales is the fractious left wing of the Anglican communion. Openly gay priests, pensions for same-sex partners. Women bishops soon. And, of course, a church calendar full of local saints not formally recognized by the Church of England.”

Tilbury was taking his seat. It was time to go, but they lingered for a moment to hear Niall begin. “Tonight we celebrate a sublime masterpiece,” he declared, “created, preserved, and restored to Wales and the world at untold cost.” The icon of Saint Deiniol slid onto the screen above him. “We celebrate Wales, a proud and resourceful nation under attack from the North and the East.”

“But most of all,” Niall continued in a ringing voice, “we celebrate the Welsh people, both known and forever forgotten. A native saint still venerated in Hawarden. A courageous survivor of a Viking massacre, who saved a book above all other treasures. Generations of brothers, principled in the face of persecution. The faithful Glynnes and those who helped them.”

The screen filled with the first page of the Gospel of John. As they turned to leave, Niall’s words followed Sherlock and John down the hall. “And a laborer-poet who took a life and gave one to return the book.”

***

“You still haven’t told me where we’re heading,” John pointed out obligingly, as they walked across the lawn to the monument of Prime Minister Gladstone.

Sherlock licked his lips and swept a nervous glance over him. “It’s a gift,” he said shortly. “I thought you’d prefer to be surprised.” A dust-up raged behind his eyes. “But the cab is due to collect us directly. Perhaps now?”

John shrugged and smiled. Sherlock once shook him awake at 3:00 a.m. to present him with his own phone, loaded with an app for managing the blog on the go. John welcomed Sherlock’s rare, strange gifts when and where they came.

“Our next stop is Holywell—the Lourdes of Wales.” Sherlock returned an awkward smile, then rattled on as if drafted by the Tourist Board. “Saint Winifred’s well has been a place of pilgrimage since the seventh century, Britain’s oldest shrine in continuous use.”

John gamely tried to imagine Sherlock on pilgrimage. “So,” he ventured, “we’re going to . . . take the waters?”

“No.” His nose wrinkled in genteel distaste. “Unless you wish to, of course,” he compromised. While the prime minister deliberated sagely overhead, Sherlock commandeered John’s case and neatly aligned both bags with the plinth. John recognized this sign—Sherlock’s sock index had survived two wrenching years of failed cleaning initiatives and purges. Geometric precision spelled Sherlock’s mind in action. When he spoke again, John listened in earnest.

“After Henry VIII broke with the Pope, the saint and her well became potent symbols of Catholic resistance in Wales.” His eyes shone clear blue in the late sun. Somehow they held a question. “Henry destroyed the shrine and its relics, but Jesuits kept the well open for pilgrimage and healing.”

“Wait.” John was beginning to catch the thread. “Is there a connection to the White Book?”

“Conceivably.” Drifting closer, Sherlock said, “The saint’s name in Welsh is Gwenfrewi.”

“Gwyn?”

“A cognate, yes.” A flush rose up Sherlock’s throat. He was not quite meeting John’s eyes. “It means ‘blessed reconciliation.’”

Blessed reconciliation. The words hung between them. Sherlock turned the full beam of his otherworldly gaze on John. “John, do you understand?”

It was a gift like no other. John thought of the White Book of Saint Deiniol, threatened, lost, and found. He wanted to read Sherlock, every sacred letter. He’d find no simple truth—he understood that now. “Yes,” he answered.

The tense angles of Sherlock’s face softened. He held John’s eyes now. All hot focus, that laser traced down to John’s lips. As if releasing a burden, Sherlock bent his head and slowly, deliberately, closed his eyes. John watched, transfixed, as he waited motionless there, lips gently parted and temptingly close. John stepped into the circle of Sherlock’s waiting warmth, and twining a hand in his curls, pulled him into a kiss. Sherlock’s plush lips were already opening as John brushed their mouths together. His tongue met John’s shyly, touching and withdrawing. It sent a pulse of arousal through John that would have to keep—the cab was pulling up.

Sherlock rested his long fingers in the center of John’s chest for an instant before he stepped away. “Holywell,” he told the driver coolly. As the library fell into the distance behind them, Sherlock’s hand found John’s. “Imagine, John—a beheading! The healing spring burst from the ground where Winifred’s head fell.”

John smiled down at their joined hands. It was a cold case, to be sure, but a beheading—at least an 8. The green Flintshire hills flew by as John leaned closer. Before he could speak, a sudden frown creased his beloved’s aristocratic brow.

“Her uncle, Saint Bueno, reattached the head.”

________________________________________

[1] _Diolch i chi._ (Thank you.)

[2] _memoria technica_ (Latin: memory aid, mnemonic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has joined me on this ramble across north Wales, and on my long, strange Bibliophilia trip. One calendar year, 65K words—it’s been tremendous fun. Further acknowledgments appear at the end of [ Chapter 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/837440/chapters/1595397). Please leave a comment if you enjoyed the story. I'd love to hear from you.
> 
> Now posted: [Bottles](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1330447), a 221B-epilogue to “The Gladstone Ritual.”


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